Feeder17
by BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Spike has just been captured by the Initiative, but instead of giving him a behavioral modification chip, he's given something else; something that will test the limits of his patience and his control, something that will force him to decide exactly what he is willing to do to survive. May eventually earn an M-rating for Spikey goodness ;)
1. Chapter 1

**** Author's Note ****

**All new characters, qoutes, and plotlines belong to me; everything else belongs to the fabulous Joss Whedon.**

* * *

Feeder17 sat quietly in her bay, watching the screen on the other side of the electrified door. The men in white had come and gone, holding her down to slide a hypodermic needle into the tender skin of her inner elbow and leaving the screen behind. It had flashed on with a loud click, and a jolt had run through her entire body as the image cleared.

Hostile17. The one that she'd been torn from her life for, the reason she'd been kidnapped, tortured. She watched in silence as he lay passed out on the floor behind the electrified field. He was a vampire, she knew that from the mind-numbing hours she had spent crouched in the corner of her cell while a flat, female voice had been piped through the speakers near the ceiling, explaining to her over and over again what was happening to her, in a way that made it sound like it was being read from a user's manual. Brainwashing for Dummies.

A sneer touched her face before she forced her emotions down and away. She had learned months ago what would give her pain and what would get her a reward. Showing emotions was one of the things that hurt. Centering her thoughts, she turned back to the screen. He was coming around now, using the wall to push himself into a standing position. She watched as his eyes narrowed and he began to look around frantically, aware of the trap he was in. As he moved towards the force field in front of him, she instinctively reached out towards the screen, not having time to breathe the warning on her lips before he slammed his hands against the barrier and got the shock of his un-life.

Glancing down, she jumped as violently as he had. It was as if she were noticing her own arm for the first time, as though someone else had reached out to the vampire on the screen. Snatching her arm back, she drew it in tightly to her chest, hugging her middle the way she often did when she was in the straightjacket. Why did she care if this demon was hurt? It would be better if he killed himself attacking the barrier, as she knew some of the others had done, throwing themselves into the electricity in a frenzy until their brains had been fried like pancakes. But this one didn't do that. She watched as he collected himself, began to pace back and forth, ranting and railing. It would do him no good.

She knew she was meant for him. Well, for someone like him. She'd been told that for months. She didn't know it would be him specifically, not till now. He was tall, lean, and pale, dressed in a long black duster and heavy black combat boots. His hair was a jolting bottle-blonde, slicked back hard, and as he paced he ran his fingers through it in frustration. He was almost… attractive, burning from the inside out with justified anger.

A hard shock of revulsion clenched her insides. He wasn't attractive, he was a monster! They'd told her he would probably kill her on sight, tear her throat out and drink her dry. Kill her, drink her, bathe in her blood… _rape her, kill her, drink her, kill her…_

'_STOP!_' the voice in her head screamed. Her breathing was up again, harsh raspy breaths dragging in and out of her lungs as her heart hammered in her chest. They came back when she got like this. Then it would be drugs and straightjackets, that flat feminine voice piped in through the speakers near the ceiling. Slowly, slowly, she began to gather herself, pull everything in towards her center and make it still.

'_It was ok_,' the voice murmured. Ok to feel this way after everything she'd been through. For months the men in white had irrevocably tied her life to that of her Hostile. She didn't exist without him. He was her only purpose. Without him, she was just a waste, an expense, one that would promptly be discarded. Tearing her gaze away from the floor, she brought it back to the screen where Hostile17, _her _Hostile17 had pressed himself to the wall near the barrier, talking to whatever demon was housed next door.

'_Soon_,' the voice in her mind murmured to her. Soon she would meet him for the first time. Then it would be his choice whether she lived and served her purpose, or whether they would both die.


	2. Chapter 2

'_Listen_.'

Feeder17 took heed of the warning that the voice in her head mouthed quietly to her as she slowly came awake, lying still on the floor and keeping her eyes closed. She could just make out a faint squeaking, accompanied by unhurried footsteps, but they were growing steadily fainter as they moved away off to her left. When the sounds had completely faded and she felt it safe, she slowly opened her eyes and sat up from the hard white tiles. The hallway in front of her cell stood empty, the cart and the screen attached to it now gone. She felt a sudden fear and emptiness at the loss of her view. The last she remembered was the sight of her Hostile continuing to pace, until the steady movement of his body across the screen had lulled her into a light sleep.

'_Did he die in the night?_'

Angrily, she silenced the voice. If he had, she'd be dead as well. Raising a hand to her mouth, she bit nervously at her nails before remembering herself and dropping her hand back into her lap. That was a habit from her old life, one that the men in white believed they had beaten out of her. It would only mean punishment to take it up again. Gaining her feet unsteadily, she too began to pace in a mimicry of the vampire who now dominated her thoughts.

'_Is he alive? Is he alright? What are they doing to him? Has he been fed_?'

Baring her teeth in a feral snarl, she gripped handfuls of her short, dark hair and pulled. "Shut up, shut up shut up!" She muttered viciously. He had to be alive, he had to be. If he wasn't she was nothing, she was no one, she was dead. Uncurling her fingers and dropping her hands to her sides, she forced herself to still her pacing and calm her breathing, which had once again been made ragged by excitement. No. It would be better if he was dead. No living being deserved the tortures wrought in this place, deserved to be subjected to the secrets that were whispered in the dark. Better to just be at an end, to fade until there was nothing left, to escape the pain and float away towards the ceiling where a flat, female voice was piped through the speakers.

'_If he dies, you die_.'

A chill ran through her, one that steeled her spine and her resolve. This was it, the bottom line, the final play. He was the only thing that could kill her, and the only thing that could keep her alive. She only existed if he did, and against all odds, despite everything that had been done to her and all the things that the voice in her head warned her were still to come, she still very much wanted to exist.

* * *

Dr. Maggie Walsh watched the pair of screens in front of her with intense interest, a pen poised in her hand, ready at any moment to dart out and make a note in heavy black ink on the charts before her. Each screen displayed one of two Cell17's, the first in the Hostile Wing, the second from the Feeder Wing. For the moment both screens were still, their subjects unmoving. Feeder17 had hours ago succumbed to sleep, lying with her back pressed against the wall of the cell, but Hostile17 was as alert as it'd been since it had first come to consciousness in the underground lab. Though he'd been sitting silently on his heels in the corner for quite some time, she felt that perhaps this one was different. It didn't look quite the same as the others, the ones who'd quickly recognized their situation as hopeless and went the route of a comatose despair. No, this one looked like it was thinking, calculating… waiting. For hours.

Angrily, she tossed her pen down on the desk. At the rate they were going, Maggie would never bring her research up to where it needed to be. She scowled at the screens. All the plans were made, she'd even had her technicians engineer a prototype of the behavioral modification chip she one day hoped to put into service. But before she could do that she needed her baseline. She had to know exactly how much control these monsters had before she could begin treatments.

Her measures were good, she assured herself. Ingenious really. It had taken a long while to find the right combination of drugs that would make a specific blood addictive to the Type V Hostiles, but she had found it. Of course, most of them killed their Feeders quickly. Luckily, the drugs were so volatile, and administered so regularly to the Feeders, that the addiction took almost immediately. Three feeds were the most it had ever taken, and from that point on the only blood that would keep a Hostile alive was the blood of its paired Feeder. Even animal blood wouldn't save them at that point, those who'd killed becoming violently ill when they were given anything else to eat.

Once they were certain that the drugs did in fact do what they were intended to, and that the Type V Hostiles could only survive off of the blood of their Feeder, it was time to develop the baseline, and that required a little more finesse than a daily hypodermic. In order for her to determine how much control the Hostiles had, they had to be made aware of their situation. For a while she had tried simply explaining it to them from the safety of the hallway, but had quickly realized that none of the Hostiles, Type V or otherwise, were interested in what she had to say. So she came up with new plan.

It was easier to manipulate the Feeders than she had thought it would be. The drugs burning their way through their systems helped, and so did the fact that most of them had no idea where they were or what was happening. The disorientation, the fear, the isolation they were kept in all made their minds weaker, more easily influenced. She had made the tapes herself, reading off an exact explanation of what would happen to the Feeders and what their lives were now worth, setting the recordings to play on a loop almost constantly.

She shied from calling it brainwashing. Everything they were being told was the truth. It was true that they were now nothing without their Hostile; their only purpose was to provide blood to them. It was also true that they would most probably be killed by their Hostile, if not right off than very, very soon. Certain that the Feeders were well-informed and that they knew their place, the task of educating the Hostiles passed to them. Those who didn't have a chance to cry out the truth before they were bitten did it as they lay dying on the cell floors of the Hostile wing, the pain and fear in their voices convincing all but the dullest of the demons that listened.

And what did any of it mean? Well, for now it meant that Maggie's hypothesis was holding. The Type V Hostiles did not have even a semblance of self-control. Even the ones who seemed to understand, to realize that their only source of sustenance was now the Feeder they'd been paired with, were unable to stop themselves from killing. Fatality rates for feeders held steady at one hundred percent.

Looking back to the screens, Maggie watched as Feeder17 came awake and began to pace the front of her cell. She was anxious, that much had shown when they'd left the screen at her cell door. She had watched it carefully for hours, her eyes carefully trained on her paired Hostile until she had slouched to the floor in sleep. There was something different about this one too. She was more resistant to the drugs than the others, more resistant to the training. She had held on to her human habits, had fought longer than the others before finally falling in line with the program. Well, this afternoon would see the success of her… new purpose. Hostile17 had been in the lab for over twenty four hours; it would be hungry by now. But not too much.

Maggie buzzed in a key code to summon an intern to take over her position at the screens. She wanted to be on her best game when they finally introduced the new experimental pair, and she needed to grab a cup of coffee and a nap before then.


	3. Chapter 3

Bloody Slayer. This was the final straw. No more Mr. Nice Guy. He was gonna find that little blonde bitch and tear her throat out.

Spike felt his demon face come out to play with thoughts of all the things he'd do to the Slayer when he caught up with her. Hell, maybe he'd even take out the witch, the whelp, and the watcher first. Spike shook his head, clearing his features. No. That smacked of Angelus, and Spike had always preferred the direct approach to a problem. Probably best not to play around either. In and out, get the job done and be rid of the nuisance forever. If there was one thing Spike hated after all his wasted time with Dru, it was having to worry about someone other than himself.

Sinking down onto his heels, Spike let his mind still with his body, settling into a trance like state that would serve as sleep for now. He hadn't let his guard down that way since he'd first come to on the floor of this prison, and he didn't plan to anytime soon. He could feel a sort of nausea rolling around low in his belly, a warning that his body was beginning to slow. He hadn't fed since well before his capture, and the sharp pangs of hunger he normally felt had come and gone. This wasn't the first time he'd foregone a stint of fasting, but he knew there would be consequences if he didn't get someone to eat soon.

Looking past the barrier of his cell, he once more surveyed the hallway with an interest born of survival instincts. What the hell was the Slayer after with this place? Across the way he could make out the figure of a Genthos demon, a sight that made Spike frown. Genthos demons passed through the world entirely unnoticed because, like vampires, they looked just like people, at least until you got them naked. They were timid things, small in stature and with appetites like snakes, eating mice, insects, and small reptiles, and as far as Spike knew, never hurting anyone or making any kind of trouble. It was hard to imagine why such a harmless little demon would be here, or how it had managed to expose itself as a demon in the first place.

Spike grumbled out a low snarl. Even to his own ears, it was starting to sound like he no longer believed the Slayer was behind this. It just wasn't making sense, wasn't her style. Spike's laugh broke the silence of his cell, bouncing off its white walls and coming back to him. Like he _needed_ another reason to go after that stupid bint. Cutting himself off mid-chuckle, he cocked his head, straining to hear. Footsteps. Long ways off, but they were coming up the hallway on his left. Rising smoothly to his full height, he stepped deeper into his cell, and stayed quietly back against the wall when the commandoes approached the barrier.

He had seen them walk past dozens of times in the hours, days, _God how long had it been_, that he'd been kept, had learned a little from the vampire in the cell off to his left, but had yet to see a moment that would make his escape possible. This could well be it.

The group of five parted, the two soldiers in front moving off to stand on either side of his cell, guns at the ready. Behind them were revealed two more men, both in lab coats, with a body supported between them. As he watched it raised its head, a girl's dark eyes immediately finding his gaze. They flared bright with something he wasn't sure he recognized, something that put the predator in him back on its heels, wary of a trap. So suddenly struck with those haunted eyes, he was too late to make good any action when one of the lab coats used a pair of tin snips to cut the zip ties at her wrists, and the other swiped a card through the mechanism along the wall, causing the barrier to hum and glow bright for the briefest of moments.

Jerking himself from whatever spell had momentarily held him, he lunged forward towards the barrier, but was stopped when the lab coats propelled the girl forward, throwing her body through the electric field where they collided. Spike's arms closed reflexively around her, and it was the hard, jerking spasms running through the muscles of her arms and torso from the shock of the still active force field that kept him from continuing on through it. Throwing her body away from him where it crashed against the wall and crumpled to the floor, he turned to the commandos and unleashed a snarl that caused all but one of them to blanch white and back away. The fourth? The fourth one just smirked. Spike would kill him for that. Oh yes, he would.


	4. Chapter 4

Watching the soldier until he was out of sight, Spike turned to face whatever demon they'd thrown in with him, then cocked his head in confusion. The girl that lay crumpled where he'd thrown her against the wall appeared to be a human, and a weak one at that. Only a few inches shorter than he, she was thin and drawn, though feed her up and she might make a succulent, curvy morsel at that. Spike took a few sniffs, appraising her. Yes, definitely human.

Shaking her head groggily, she raised her hands up to cover her ears, as if to block out the silence around them. Spike's gaze traveled over her again, watching as the tips of her dark hair brushed across the exposed, milky smooth skin of her collar bone. His eyes narrowed, homing in on that sweet spot where the shoulder met the neck. He could hear her heart racing, could almost see her jugular pumping away as the muscles in his abdomen clenched, screaming for the blood that pounded just underneath the skin.

Suddenly her gaze jerked up to his, and once again he found himself caught by eyes as black as any demon's, so dark he almost couldn't see the fear in them. Almost. That fear, that barely-there glint, was what broke the spell this time, that sweet, delicious fear that added the perfect tang to any meal, like a robust finish on a good wine. Spike felt his face shift, eyes blazing, teeth sharp as he let out the feral snarl of the wolf gone hungry too long. Across the cell in a single stride, he attacked, jerking her head to the side to expose her neck. So loud was the roar of his own thirst that he nearly didn't hear her panicked cry of 'wait!' before he struck, sinking fangs deep into her neck and gulping at the font of blood that rushed hot and salty into his mouth. His demon was starved, and sucked greedily with long, deep pulls, even as something in his brain shouted a warning. There was something wrong here, even as the girl struggled beneath him.

Her pulse was slowing but Spike's demon didn't care; he was going to take until there was nothing left. A hand came up to push against his chest, forcing him back an inch and surprising him with its strength, though it was not enough to throw him off. Then abruptly, the little warning in his brain clicked. Jerking in shock, Spike stumbled back, his prey sinking to the ground with eyes glazed. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible.

"Slayer?" he breathed.

* * *

It was over an hour before Feeder17 came back to consciousness again. She seemed to be half propped against a wall, listing to one side. She could feel a stinging pain on the left side of her neck, and with that pain came a flood of returning memories; being drugged and moved from her cell, thrown through the electricity into a pair of strong steady arms. Being thrown again, this time into the wall, the voice in her head shouting a warning, and a brief glimpse of her Hostile before he struck.

She had tried to stop him, to warn him not to bite, but she had failed, feeling the incredibly deep ache as his teeth broke deep into her flesh. She had tried to fight him, to struggle away from his teeth and escape, but she could not. She felt the pull as he drew her life into his body, lightness filling up her head as he took and took and took. Making one last attempt, she raised a hand to his chest and heaved with all her strength. She felt him give, and from her scattered head came the prayer that it had been enough. She doubted it. But then suddenly the pain had lessened, and just before she blacked out she heard his voice.

"Slayer?"

Slayer. She frowned. The word confused her, it was one she didn't know and didn't like the sound of. Slowly, she began to wiggle her fingers and toes, to flex the muscles of her arms and legs, testing her body. It appeared to be in working order, and the pain in her neck, the fatigue in her limbs, told her that perhaps she wasn't dead after all. Unwilling to wait even a moment more to find out, she opened her eyes. And flinched when she found herself face to face with her Hostile.

He was sitting mere feet away, Indian style with his hands on his knees. He wore his human face but his eyes were narrowed, his head tilted to the side as he studied her. He appeared contemplative, puzzled. He didn't move or speak as her vision cleared, so she took a silent moment to study him right back.

He was handsome, she supposed, in a sharp, dangerous way. His face was harshly defined, with high cheekbones and a thin scar through his left eyebrow. His eyes were a hard, cold blue, and they followed her gaze over his body without comment. As she'd seen on the screen days, weeks, months ago, he was pale and lean, but having been thrown into his arms she knew the strength in them, having collided with his body she knew the solid muscling of his chest. He was a fighter without the bulk of a brawler, a killer with a dancer's grace.

In the back of her mind, the voice marveled at how she knew this; why she knew what he would be, how he would move. She shook it off and went back to her sight-seeing. His bright blonde hair was more mussed than it had previously been, most likely due to a lack of gel and frustrated hands gripping it tightly. _That_ she had personal experience with. Long leather coat, black t-shirt and red button-down underneath. Full lips and a strong chin smeared with blood. Her blood.

"So who the hell are you?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice, strong and clear with a heavy English accent, though it didn't sound as snobbish as she would've expected. Like the rest of him, his voice seemed to command space, to fill up the air of the cell and push against her skin. She frowned at him. For some reason she hadn't expected him to talk to her, and now she wasn't sure how to answer.

"I'm… I'm Feeder17."

He blinked once, then leaned back as if to see her better. "Come again?"

"I am Feeder17."

"And what in sodding hell does that mean?"

She flinched away from his harsh words, the flash of anger in his eyes. She opened her mouth to respond, but quickly snapped it shut again, looking nervously at the ceiling where a microphone sat surreptitiously near the speakers, much like the ceiling of her own cell back in the Feeder Wing. They were listening.


	5. Chapter 5

Spike growled low to himself, too quietly for the girl to hear. She had a lot of explaining to do, and he was just about ready to shake the explanations out of her. He had been surprised when she had awakened; calmly looking him over as though he hadn't just attacked her like a rabid dog. She was groggy; she'd been weak before and he _had_ almost drained her, but she had still come to much sooner than he'd expected. Must be the Slayer blood in her.

Ah, the blood of the Slayer. Spike could still taste it. There was something else wrong there too, masking it, and it was faint, but it was most definitely there. He felt a twinge of anger and regret at the thought that someone else must have offed the blonde bitch of Sunnyhell before he could. Perhaps even a little jealousy. But nothing explained what the new Slayer was doing here, tossed into a cell with him in the middle of some sort of government lockup.

And she clearly wouldn't be doing any explaining any time soon; she was too busy staring up at the ceiling with a sort of frightened intensity. Following her gaze, he looked questioningly at the speakers near the light.

'_Something you don't want them to hear luv_?' he thought.

Well, he could fix that. Tugging off a heavy boot, he took careful aim and pitched it as hard as he could from a sitting position. The steel toe caught the microphone dead on, smashing it with an electric crackle. A few small bits of plastic rained down, but he still managed to catch his boot neatly and pull it back on.

"There," he said, tightening his laces. "Now we can talk." He fixed her with a hard look. "And you're going to tell me _everything_."

* * *

Maggie Walsh was incensed. She sat in front of her screens positively stewing with pent up anger. How dare that Hostile take out her sound system! Never before had one of them dared to tamper with her technology, to impede her work in such a way. She watched them sitting there across from one another, chatting away like old friends and she couldn't hear a word of it. Behind her, Agent Riley Finn shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot, his soldier's stoicism temporarily forgotten.

"Stand still!" she barked. "You're bouncing around like a civilian."

"Apologies ma'am," he replied.

Maggie sneered. His voice was that of a chastened little boy, one who knew he'd displeased mother. Obedience had always been one of Agent Finn's best qualities. That he would hesitate now had at first infuriated her. He had refused to enter Hostile17's cell himself, nor would he send in a team to replace the microphone, citing the dangers that the Hostile, recently fed, would attack or escape. Her anger slightly cooled, she could see the wisdom in his decision. Rushing in to fix her equipment would have jeopardized not only her men's lives, but also the validity of her whole experiment. And it was certainly safe to say that by now she was _very_ interested.

Like all the others, Hostile17 had attacked its feeder, latching on to her neck like the animal it was. It had started out with great gulps, sucking hard and keeping a tight grip on the girl as her struggles, like her life, quickly faded, despite the warning she'd shouted. Maggie had felt something akin to disappointment when it had jerked away, dropping the girl as though her skin had burned it and leaping back. This was new.

None of the others had ever shown the ability or the inclination to cease a feeding so quickly. The fact that the Hostile had held its second face, its animal face, gave testament to the fact that it had yet to sate its blood lust. But it had stopped. Maggie had scribbled notes furiously as she had watched the Feeder pass out against the wall, cursing when she could not quite make out the gasp of the Hostile. It had then sunk slowly into a sitting position, watching its Feeder with a rapt fascination that spoke perhaps of some small primal understanding on its part.

Over the next hour she felt her dread grow. This one pair of subjects could shatter her entire hypothesis. The Feeder had slowly come awake in its position on the floor, surprising both Maggie and Dr. Angleman, who sat quietly at her side.

"She should not be awake," he commented, astonishment in his voice. "She should not even be alive!"

"No," Maggie agreed. "We need to…"

At that moment, a black boot had come flying at the cameras, jarring the view on the screens and cutting the sound, and Maggie had gone ballistic. Cursing, dragging technicians over to her work station and shouting that they fix the problem, then calling Agent Finn and barking out order after order demanding that they storm the cell and secure its occupants so that the microphones could be replaced.

It had taken a good while to calm her down, but an hour and several more threats later and she had finally settled enough to realize that she could not risk her men or her mission; to prove without question, through the use of empirical data gather with validity and reliability, that these creatures, these… monsters had no control. That they were killers.


	6. Chapter 6

She had felt an immense sense of relief when the little bits of microphone had come cascading down to the tile floor. It was as close to free as she had been in… well, in a long time. Her memory was hazy there; she knew that there had been something else before this life, something less sterile, less white, less painful, but she couldn't remember what that was. She couldn't remember that world, or the girl who had lived in it. She only knew this place anymore. Hearing a low, impatient grumble from the man-demon in front of her, she wondered if that would be enough to satisfy him.

"What… what do you …" she swallowed hard, keeping her eyes on the floor. "I'm Feeder17."

"So you've said."

His words were hard, irritated, demanding of her, and it should have scared her. Or made her angry. Or…

_No. His voice is strong. Not like that sick-sweet one always piped in over the airwaves, floating around inside like candle smoke._

The voice was right. There was strength before her. Dangerous of course, but so was anything with power. He was the only thing she was, the only thing she ever would be again, so this was good. Good that he was strong, that he was powerful.

"You happen to be anything else?"

Her eyes on the floor, she shook her head frantically from side to side in the universal gesture of denial, of rejection. Her mind brought to the fore pain filled memories of torture; electric shocks, ice water, whips, and starving, all things which drove any semblance of realness out of her. She was no longer a person, an individual. Now she was _only_ a Feeder.

A slight scoffing sound broke her from her reverie.

"Well then, atleast fill me in on what the bloody hell a feeder _is_."

"For you," she said abruptly. It was a slow beginning, a halting beginning, but at the same time the most important part, the whole part. Risking a glance, she saw an expression of shock on his face, a resistance, taken aback by her words. "They… they do experiments," she tried again, so desperate to explain it to herself that she would try to explain it to him. "Drugs." Tugging at the rough fabric of her shirtsleeve, she forced it up above her elbow, turning it towards him. The soft, pale skin there was badly bruised, riddled with track marks from numberless needles full of unknown danger.

Rough fingers grabbed her wrist and dragged her forward, but she didn't resist, rolling willingly to her knees. She clenched her fist as her Hostile lowered his head, expecting a sharp bite, but relaxed when she felt his nose skim over the inside of her elbow. His breath tickled the sensitive skin and she jerked, but he only tightened his grip on her wrist, putting his other hand behind her arm and holding it still. He inhaled deeply a few times, scenting the crook of her arm, and she waited, still, her eyes closed. The tip of a warm, wet tongue touched her, tasting the needle marks like a tiny, open-mouthed kiss. It sent goosebumps down over her forearms, and he smoothed his thumb over them before releasing her.

"Knew there was something else there," he murmured, running his tongue around the inside of his cheek. "Not sure though. Never hit on that one before…" Inhaling hard, he shook his head violently. "What is it?" he asked.

"Don't know," she said, still a bit unnerved, still feeling his touch on her elbow. Unconsciously, she scrubbed at the skin there before pulling her sleeve down and over her fingers, holding the cuff tightly in her fist. "Only what it does. Makes me yours, for you. The only one."

"Not bloody likely!" the man in front of her snorted.

It hurt. Cut at her. She could feel her pulse rise, felt her breathing become harsh and constricted as she started to panic. He couldn't leave her, couldn't discard what was left. He was all she was; if he was gone she was nothing. "Too late," she gasped, fear lacing her voice as she started to shake her head again. "Too late, can't leave. Too late."

"Oi! 'M still here, girl!" Strong hands grabbed on to her shoulders and shook her hard. She centered on the small pain where his fingers gripped her, bruising. They grounded her, slowed her brain, helped her focus on now. "Not goin' anywhere for now are we?" _No, no not for now. He was here for now_. "Not going anywhere till you tell me what's goin' on." _Not going anywhere._

"They want to see," she said. "Want to see you. Want to know if you can stop."

"Stop what?"

"What you are. Can you do it?" she asked. "Can you stop? Are you control?"

There was a beat of heavy silence, filled with feelings she didn't grasp, couldn't name. He was watching her with narrowed eyes, his brows drawn low with confusion, but still calculating. Still powerful

"Can you stop?" she demanded, her voice rising slightly. "Be control, stop what you are? Can you save this girl to save yourself?"

He looked at her like she was crazy.

* * *

"Are you bloody daft?" Spike demanded.

_Please God, don't let me be stuck with another one_.

Woah. Hold up. Where had _that_ come from? He'd never before expressed resentment for what his Dru was, what Angelus and Darla had made her into. He'd only ever loved her; played her games, spoke politely to her dolls, indulged the sparkly voices in her head. But suddenly, faced with the prospect of having two of them on his hands, he felt a real shudder go down his spine.

Rolling his shoulders to duck the feeling, he focused back on the girl in front of him. Dark, she was. Dark behind those eyes… lights out, nobody home.

Buffy would've glared at him. Probably would've hit him too, made a good try at smashing his nose. This one, this Slayer? She just sat there and took it. Course, she hadn't been the Slayer very long, had she? He'd seen Buffy what… less than two months ago. And God knows how long this bird had been locked up down here, slowly going stir crazy.

"How long you been down here pet?" he asked.

"Don't know."

Spike sat quietly for a minute, watching her look at him blankly. He didn't know what to ask anymore.

"Makes the blood addictive."

"What?!" His head came up sharply, his ears perking at the words.

"The drugs. That's what they said." Her voice went robotic, dead and monotone. "You are a part of the government sanctioned Experiment 424. You are a Feeder. You exist only to feed your Hostile. They will bite you. They will take your blood from you. They will kill you. They _are_ you. You are no one now. You are a Feeder."

"Bloody hell," Spike whispered in horror. Government sanctioned. Holy bloody hell. They were fucked.

"Makes the blood addictive," the girl continued. "Only drink this girl. This blood is all that's left."

Spike got the feeling that she meant that last in more ways than one. "You mean I'm addicted to your blood? That I can only ever feed from you again?"

She didn't respond, only continued looking at him with the uncomfortably steady, dark gaze.

"No," he said, his voice rising, standing and backing away from her. "No way! You're human, you'll be dead in what? Eighty years at best? That's… that's not enough!" He could feel panic rising in his throat, clamped down and tried to get a grip on it. "I only bit you once. No way you're a habit yet."

"Sure," she murmured.

_Sure what_? His mind screamed. There was no way she could know. Even if they were being used in some twisted demon science project, there was no way they were sharing their results with the subjects. She couldn't know. And she…

She was falling asleep. Her eyes were closing, fluttering shut as her body slid to the side. Curling into the fetal position, she pressed her back to the wall, something Spike did himself on occasion, when he didn't feel particularly safe where he was sleeping. He listened for her heartbeat to slow, to tell him that she was asleep, but it never did, just kept thrumming away, though everything else told him she was already unconscious; muscles easing, breathing slow and deep, a little hum of a sigh.

Grumbling to himself, he moved to the other side of the cell, as far away as he could possibly get, before sliding to the floor, eyes on the hallway.

'_She can't know_,' he assured himself. It wasn't true. He hadn't been relegated to one bottle, one expiration-dated bottle for the rest of a very short life. But wouldn't it be the thing? If one rash decision, one hot-headed, thoughtless move on his part finally undid him?

This was Buffy's fault. Damn her. If he hadn't come back to Sunnydale looking for her, if he'd just let this one Slayer go, he wouldn't be here. Spike laughed harshly at himself. This was _his_ fault. He'd come back for revenge, to prove something to the silly bint who meant nothing to him, only another prize, and had gotten himself captured. Should've paid more attention, should've heard those stupid boys playing being soldiers sneaking up on him. But he'd get them back, he thought, watching as two white-coated science types came up the hallway, skirting to the other side of the hallway when they passed his cell. Oh, yes.

A quiet growl drew his attention. The girl across the way was still deep in sleep, but her fists were clenched and her upper lip twitched, giving him a flash of straight white teeth as she emitted a low pitched grrrr.

Spike smiled. The girl had stones, he'd give her that. Hadn't cowed from him, not when he'd caught her tight in his arms, or when he'd thrown her, not when he'd bitten her or when she'd woken up to find him watching her only inches away, stalker-fashion. '_Hell, she'd even tried to fight_', he thought, remembering a warm hand on his chest, forcing him back. Weak, sick, drugged, clearly backward in the head, and she still tried to fight. Brave.

As Spike watched her, she began to shiver. He could see the little trembles under the thin, dingy scrubs she wore and felt something in his chest that he didn't like. With a growl of his own, he rose to his feet and shucked his duster off his shoulders. Crossing to her, he crouched and draped the coat over her body, waiting until she'd stilled beneath it before backing away again. Didn't mean anything. If what she'd said was true, if he really was saddled with her… well, shit. He'd always been protective of his food.


	7. Chapter 7

Waking up, the smell of leather and smoke surrounded and confused her. It wasn't the now-familiar, sweet-sterile smell of the cold air pumped into her cell. Curling tighter, she snuggled deep into the blanket that was holding her body heat close. Wait. That wasn't right either. They didn't give her blankets. Flexing her fingers, she explored the smooth material in her hand. Then she remembered. Hostile17. He'd been wearing a long heavy coat, and from the brief moment that she'd been in his arms, that he'd been at her neck, she remembered his smell. Opening her eyes, she found the dark, worn leather jacket tucked tightly around her.

Sitting up slowly, the coat fell from her shoulders and pooled around her hips. Her hand crept to the bite wound on her neck, noting with surprise that it was almost smoothly healed. Looking around, her eyes landed on the demon who'd left it there, sitting on the other side of the cell near the door, steadfastly not looking back at her. A shiver ran through her at the sight of him, but it was probably just the sudden change in temperature. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she slipped her arms into the sleeves of the duster and drew it closed around her, inhaling the strangely comforting smell that clung to it.

"Thank you."

Her Hostile didn't respond, only flicked his eyes over her before turning back to the hallway. If she hadn't been distracted by the flash of shadow in them, she might have seen the almost imperceptible tightening of his fingers where his wrists were locked together. She sat quietly for a few minutes, watching him in silence, before the question that was chewing at her insides finally broke out.

"What's a slayer?"

This time he looked over at her sharply, eyes narrowed in speculation. Shifting slightly to face her, he rumbled out a response.

"Vampire slayer," he said. "One girl in all the world. The Chosen One."

She didn't react. She knew nothing of what he spoke of, and neither did the voice. The words meant nothing, but they made her feel strange, put something in her fingers that tingled and hummed.

"It's a prophecy," her Hostile growled, apparently frustrated with her lack of reply. "Ever since there's been vampires, there's always been one girl to fight them. Kill the demons, keep the world in balance. One dies, the next one rises. You're the newest one."

"How do you know?"

He snorted. "Hello. Vampire? It's in your blood. Speakin' of…" he said rolling smoothly to his feet, "let's have us a chat about that."

Crossing over to her, he sat down directly next to her with his back pressed to the wall. Shoving up the sleeves of his duster and her own grimy scrub top, she immediately offered him her wrist. It was caught in a viselike grip only inches from his mouth, and she flinched back in horror, fearing she'd done something terribly offensive by not offering her neck. Her Hostile seemed to be caught in an inner battle, his eyes flickering between blue and amber. With a painful tightening of his fingers on her wrist, he placed it firmly in her lap.

"Not a chance in hell luv."

* * *

Spike's senses had flared when the girl woke up. Her heartbeat, her breathing, the electricity in the air all changed, and he felt a hot flush of fear in his gut. He shouldn't be this aware of her, shouldn't _feel_ her from the other side of the room, and the only explanation he could think of was that the drugs they'd pumped her full of were taking already hold. Sitting loosely with his elbows on his knees, he had clasped one wrist in his hand, tightening his grip harshly in an attempt to keep control of himself.

It did something to him, to see her swallowed up in his duster, shrugging into it like it belonged to her, and when he had heard her sniffing it, scenting him, he went instantly hard. She was turning into an animal down here; he'd already seen flashes. A raw, primitive thing that acted on instincts dead to the human race, something more like him than any non-demon he'd ever met. Something about her, the way she moved, the way she tasted underneath the drugs and that faint Slayer sweetness; it screamed _feral_, and Spike's demon licked its lips.

He'd ignored her thanks, hadn't wanted it or cared for it. Explained the Slayer as well as Angelus had explained it to him so long ago. Hadn't mentioned Buffy; he was still quite bitter on that front. Then it was time for more important dealings.

When he'd crossed to her side, the last thing he'd expected was for her to thrust her wrist under his nose. His stomach immediately knotted, need tugging viciously at his insides. Slayer blood or not, it'd hardly been a few mouthfuls to a starving vampire, just enough to wake up the hunger and remind him of what he needed. Spike fought with his demon for what seemed like hours as the blood in the girl's wrist beat a tattoo against his fingers, until he was finally able to drill reality through his head and push her away from him.

"Not a chance in hell luv," he said, a small smile tipping the corners of his mouth. "I'm not takin' _any_ more chances with you. Like myself just the way I am, all _un_ addicted like. So there'll be no more of that, and I'll thank you to keep your pulse points to yourself."

He wasn't unaware of the hurt and confusion that crossed her face. He just didn't care. Her problems were her own. Sure, they'd been caused through weeks, months of torture and brain washing, something Spike knew more about than he cared to, but he couldn't afford to worry about her when he had to worry about himself.

"Now tell me pet," he continued, watching her carefully now for signs of a lie, "what else you know about this place?"


	8. Chapter 8

_2 Days Later…_

"Dammit!"

Agent Riley Finn ducked just in time to narrowly miss being struck with the mug Professor Maggie Walsh had thrown in his direction. The ceramic shattered, splattering the wall with hot coffee. Backing away a pace, he looked on nervously as she paced in front of her soundless monitors.

"That's it," she muttered, anger ratcheting through her voice. It was time for her contingency plan.

In the days since she had first introduced Experimental Pair HF17, they had not only destroyed her equipment, but half of her data, her hypothesis, and the moral of most of her team. Hostile17 had fed only once, not even enough to satisfy itself, and since then had proceeded to show levels of control that bordered on human.

The first time it had shed its coat to cover its Feeder, Maggie's jaw had dropped, but she had quickly convinced herself it was a fluke, a mistake that she could gloss over and explain away in her reports. The next day it had sat side by side with its Feeder, having yet another conversation that Maggie could not hear, and forcefully refusing to feed. It was then that she truly began to worry. Later that night, when the Feeder had fallen asleep, Hostile17 again crouched down, tucking its hideous leather jacket around the girl like a father would a daughter. Then it stood, faced the camera, and flipped her off, a devil's smirk on its demon face. And that quickly, it was personal.

Between screams, the utter destruction of her workspace, and the fracturing of a knuckle when she struck the screen just a bit too hard, Maggie had managed to summon Dr. Angleman and demand that they develop a strategy to correct the horrible path her experiment was taking. They had argued for hours, Angleman claiming that she was jeopardizing the entire Initiative project and all of her results by altering the procedure midway, and Maggie declaring that it no longer mattered, that the girl should be dead already and that they had never planned for such an outcome.

So they had improvised. Instead of pumping cold air into the cell the next night, they had turned up the heat, raising the temperature until the girl had kicked off the coat, leaving it crumpled in the corner. Too uncomfortable to sleep, the pair had sat on opposite walls, panting and sweating, their hair plastered to the sides of their faces. Maggie had hoped that a sort of dehydration would force Hostile17 into feeding, but it was now it was time for more drastic steps.

* * *

Feeder17 watched quietly from her corner as her Hostile became paler and more drawn by the hour, his cheeks hollowing out and his hands beginning to shake, dark bruises forming under his eyes. She wasn't feeling so well either. She was nauseas and light-headed, she wasn't eating, and ever since the heat had been turned on, she had become increasingly lethargic. She'd rolled up the arms and legs of her scrubs in an attempt to cool her body, scraping her short hair back from her face in a look much like that of her Hostile.

After telling him as much as she could remember about what little she'd seen of the doors and hallways of this place, they had sat across from each other in silence for hours, and she began to wonder what the men in white would do to them. '_Soon_,' the voice said. '_They'll do it soon. This isn't how it's supposed to work. You're making them angry_.'

And it was true. When they finally came to the door, two of them, accompanied by two soldiers with guns ready, she could see the fury in their eyes. One of them swiped their card in the key box to bump the force field down, taking it from a solid wall to one which could be passed through, but was still debilitatingly painful to touch. Her Hostile immediately leapt forward, prepared to throw himself through the electricity if it meant even the smallest chance at freedom, but one of the soldiers, a brunette with a soft face and a hard body, whipped up a wooden cross and her Hostile fell back, hissing behind sharp teeth as he held up an arm as if to block a glare from the crucifix.

The men in white ignored him, instead turning to her with their angry eyes, bending down and placing a plastic tray on the floor before sliding it hard through the barrier towards her. She instinctively pushed herself away from it, backing her body hard against the wall of the cell. Sneering at her, the two turned and left without word, as did the second soldier. Not so the first.

"Eat up," he said smugly, pocketing his cross. "One of you has to… eventually."

"Oh I'll eat up all right," her Hostile muttered viciously, watching him walk away down the hall. "Split you in half and eat your bloody heart right out of your sodding ribcage!"

Feeder17 flinched at the gruesome image he painted under his breath. And then wished she hadn't, because for the first time in many hours, it drew his attention fully back to her. Rising to his full height, he strode across the cell, nudging the tray with the toe of his combat boot. She glanced, but didn't move for it; it was just a lunch tray, much like she'd gotten before, and hungry as she was, it was probably laced with drugs.

Crouching, her Hostile rummaged brusquely around on the tray. She watched silently as he cursed and sat back on his heels.

"Not even a sodding spoon!" he huffed.

She didn't mean to respond, but at that moment her stomach growled. Loudly. Looking up at her, a smirk tilted at one side of his mouth, causing her to blush. Automatically his eyes darkened, his jaw clenching as he saw her color, _felt_ the blood swish just under the skin of her cheeks. Swallowing hard, he looked away and handed her one of two bottles of water.

"Come on pet," he encouraged softly. "The pillock was right; one of us has to keep it up."

_He's tells it true_.

"It's drugged," she said flatly, taking the bottle and twisting off the cap. She didn't mean to, but the first cool mouthful was heaven, and her dehydrated body drained all of it in one go, guzzling away as water trickled down over her chin.

"Probably."

She shot him a glare, immediately dropping her eyes when he quirked a scarred eyebrow at her.

"Don't worry about it luv," he said. His eyes followed her as she lifted the second bottle of water to her neck, rubbing the cool plastic against her flushed skin. Sneering, he turned away, and she lowered the bottle with a sudden flush of shame. She hadn't meant to… tease him.

Cracking off the top, she drank half and set it aside before picking the applesauce cup from the tray. Turning it in her hand, she pried up the foil lid.

It was an accident. Or maybe not. The plastic edge of that cup was awfully sharp. A hiss of pain, and an inch ling gash appeared along the base of her palm, then blood was running freely down her hand.

* * *

Spike was on her in seconds, his demon latching down on her wrist and biting hard. His human brain screamed at him to stop, to back away, but he kept pulling, drinking deep, reveling as the hot, salty liquid coated his parched throat and swollen tongue. He could taste the drugs, almost immediately absorbed by the girl's failing body, but he couldn't stop, just kept going as his thoughts faded away, leaving only the need to fill his empty belly behind. And then there was nothing.

* * *

From her reconstructed work station, Maggie Walsh smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

There was a flurry of activity throughout the Initiative from the moment Hostile17 passed out. Doctor Angleman directed technicians into the cell, flanked by soldiers, lifting the unconscious bodies of Hostile and Feeder and securing them tightly to stretchers. As they were wheeled off to surgery, engineers were sent in to repair the microphones and to place steel cages around the cameras, preventing future breaks.

Maggie Walsh herself followed Hostile17 down into the operating room. There, blood would be drawn, temperatures taken, a toxicology screening performed… among other things. It was beyond time to discover just what made this Hostile different.

* * *

Swimming up from darkness, Spike groaned in agony, rolling to his side and curling his body in on itself in an attempt to escape the pain of the hard tiles beneath it, but immediately flattened himself onto his back with a scream as muscles tore. His eyes flew open in a panic, hands scrabbling at the tattered remains of his t-shirt, pulling it aside to expose his stomach. Two long incisions crossed his flat belly, and though they'd each been closed with neat black stitches, they went deep. Higher up, a third cut over his heart, flanked by burn marks.

Spike hissed between clenched teeth as he gently prodded his flesh, exploring the blossoming bruises and taking stock of each wound. He could feel burns on either side of his forehead and his vision was blurry, his head spinning as his ears rang. The skin of his wrists was black and blue, broken where he had thrashed and pulled against his restraints under the torturous instruments and blinding white surgical lights.

He'd woken up with the first twist of the knife, but he had been unable to focus, unable to move his body under the influence of whatever drug had been in the girl's system. He couldn't scream, he couldn't fight, he could only endure as masked hands descended, cutting, bruising, prodding, pulling at his organs and turning his insides out. Thankfully, both his body and his mind were accustomed to torment. While his consciousness retreated to a guarded place, his body fought off the drugs, slowly regaining control and then seeking to free itself without his guidance. Instinct alone had him bucking against the straps, arching off the table and snapping left and right while his sanity stayed safely tucked away, until he felt a sharp prick in his elbow and he was out again.

Now those same instincts were screaming at him to get up. Gathering what little strength he could, Spike tried to push himself upright using the wall for support, but the wrenching pain in his belly was too much. He wouldn't have made it but for gentle hands that suddenly reached out, guiding him, taking his weight and propping up his shoulders. Gasping, trying not to black out, he looked around, blinking rapidly as his vision slowly cleared under the glaring whiteness of the room.

He was back in the cell again, empty but swamped with the scent of a dozen different men. His duster and button up had been kicked into a corner; a quick glance at the ceiling showed the microphone had been replaced and the cameras reinforced. A touch on his shoulder had him flinching back violently, shying from the pain his mind was waiting for, but it never came.

"What did they do to you?"

She looked better. That was the first thought that flitted through his scattered brain when he looked up at her. She was more alert, more coherent. Her scent overwhelmed him as she leaned in close, parting his shirt and trailing her fingers down over his chest, tracing the lines of stitches that crossed his skin. He trembled under her touch, from pain, from shock, from fear, still unable to fully process what was happening.

"You're cold," she murmured.

Leaving his side, she didn't see him reach out for her, desperate for something to anchor him to this plane as he fought the nausea and the darkness that was threatening to pull him back under. She came back with his coat, helping him exchange a useless scrap of t-shirt for his red dress shirt, fingers buttoning him from the bottom up, leaving the top three open over his chest. He was grateful for that, left him feeling like he could still breath. Unnecessary, but he couldn't control the air grating in and out of his broken chest.

His coat came next, the familiar weight of it on his shoulders washing comfort and safety over an un-centered mind. The smell of it, the _feel_ of the leather grounded him, brought back memories of another time. It reminded him who he was, returned a bit of his confidence, a bit of his swagger. He was the Slayer of Slayers! William the Bloody. He was Spike, one of the Aurelian four, the Scourge of Europe!

Slapping down the hand that reached out to touch his face, he thrust the girl away from him and forced himself to his feet in a violent stagger, arms tight around his middle against the wrenching. Glaring up at the cameras, the full force of his demon came down over his face, and he pulled back his lips in a vicious bearing of teeth, roaring with rage.

* * *

Feeder17 felt better. Better than she had in days, weeks. They'd wheeled her down into a surgical room, hooked her up to an IV drip, and began hydrating her; vitamins, electrolytes, pain killers, probably something else, all pumping into her through a clear plastic tube. But she felt better. Stronger. They'd taken a few blood samples, did some vital reading, and then she'd been brought back, back to her cage. Well, his cage. But he wasn't there.

She almost panicked, the fear of losing her purpose almost enough to send her tumbling over the edge, but she'd seen his coat crumpled in the corner and had immediately lunged for it, hugging it close in tight fists, inhaling the leather and smoke that had so quickly come to mean something. The waiting was a nightmare, rocking back and forth without thought, until the soldiers came, his limp body between them. Swiping a keycard, the barrier ratcheted down and they dropped him through into the cell, where he landed with a dull thud, like hollow wood.

She had approached him cautiously and with real terror, fearing him dead. Remembering that he was _already_ dead sent creeping forward, her eyes roaming over his broken body. With a groan, he rolled onto his side, but only made it halfway before flipping onto his back with a scream. The pain must have brought him awake; he began to thrash and jerk, tearing open his shirt and exposing his torso. Her breath caught in her throat, a hard wave of nausea making her gag at the thought of the atrocities that must have caused such marks.

He began to struggle to push himself up; unable to watch him suffer, she finally reached out and took his shoulders, helping to lean him against the wall. There was a blind look in his eyes, his breathing harsh and ragged, and she could almost smell the fear coming off of him. Wanting more than anything to see that fear leave him, to give him some small comfort in support, she laid a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched away violently, and she withdrew.

"What did they do to you," she whispered.

Her voice seemed to center him, drawing his gaze and his focus. Holding his cold blue gaze, she leaned in close, easing his shirt open and running her fingertips over his chest. His skin was clammy and cold to the touch, and as she traced the edges of harsh blues and blacks mottling his abdomen, goose bumps rose, his skin quivering as he shook.

"You're cold."

Turning away from him, she quickly crossed the cell and grabbed his duster from where she'd left it on the floor. Back at his side, she knelt and eased the shredded remains of his black t-shirt from his shoulders, fearful of finding more damage beneath. Helping him get his arms through the red silk, she buttoned him up, leaving the top of the shirt open so as not to constrict him too badly. The more freedom of movement he had, the less likely he would be to pull something, to make something worse. The coat went next, tucked tightly around him, as if to keep in the body heat he did not exude.

Guilt flashed through her, hitting hard. He looked so much worse than he had before. Still horribly pale, his skin had taken on an alarming translucency, and was badly bruised under his eyes. They had clearly tortured him; cut him, beaten him, burned him. What had they done to her? Cleaned her up, bandaged her wrist, pumped her full of all the things her body needed. They had _hurt_ him. Her eyes stung, and she reached out a hand to touch the side of his face.

He spooked her when he slapped it down. Suddenly he was lurching to his feet, clearly in agonizing amounts of pain, but managed to stand and stand tall. If she had worried about him before, wanted to take the fear away, she had no cause to worry now. As his eyes flashed amber and his teeth sharpened, he let out a sound so primal and ferocious that she was sent scrambling backward, her body searching for an escape.


	10. Chapter 10

Time passed. Minutes. Hours. Days. She didn't know. It felt like it had been years. She couldn't do anything but watch as her Hostile paced, back and forth, back and forth across the length of the cell. He wasn't healing, and he was getting weaker, but he was fighting through it, putting on a good show for the cameras. She had offered him her blood several times, trying to quietly coax him into feeding, but each time she was met with silent refusal, as he shoved away her proffered wrists and neck. She imagined she saw betrayal flash in his cold blue eyes, and eventually she gave up her efforts. It was only a painful tease, tempting him with something he so desperately needed, and just as desperately wished to stay away from.

But it hurt. She knew the reasons he refused her, but knowing didn't help. This was her reason, her purpose; to feed him, to sustain him with her blood.

_Want to heal him. Want to stop the hurt. Want to make him whole._

She was shocked to realize that the voice was right. She _did_ want those things. Not because of purpose or reason, thought she wasn't precisely sure _exactly_ why. But she _wanted_.

He had been mumbling to himself under his breath for a while now and his pacing had sped up. Now he spun on his heel, more viciously than before, and it had him clutching at his ribs with a hiss of pain. His distress was too much for her, and she broke her silence.

"You should eat," she said softly, so quietly that only he would hear her.

Her voice stopped him dead in his tracks, and he looked her straight on for the first time since he had flinched away from her in a crumbled haze of fear and physical shock. But there was a softness in his eyes this time, and for just a moment she felt a flash of relief that maybe he'd given in. Then he heaved a put-upon sigh and slumped against the wall opposite her, patting the pockets of his duster in a now-familiar series of movements, coming up empty-handed like all the other times.

"What's your name luv?" he asked her gently, shoving his hands deep into his jean pockets and flicking a brief glance at the microphones and cameras above their heads.

The question surprised her. All this time spent trapped together, and it had never come up. She shrugged. It didn't matter. "I am Feeder17," she mumbled, her eyes on the floor.

"Bollocks," he muttered, pushing off the wall and beginning to pace again. "_I_ am not a _hostile_, I'm SPIKE! And _you_ are not a _feeder_." He flung up a hand to stop her when she began to protest. "Even if that's what you think you are now," he said, pointing hard at her, "it's not what you always were. So let's try again. What _was_ your name?"

"I… I-I am Feeder17," she stammered, her voice trailing off into nothing.

"I am _not_ calling you Feeder17!" he snarled.

She didn't notice. She had retreated into her memories, listening intently for the voice to guide her to the answer they both sought, but there was nothing there. She knew she'd had a name, knew she'd had a life, but it was gone from her now, lost in the ether that was the Initiative.

* * *

Spike paced. Back and forth, back and forth, the motion the only thing keeping the anxious restlessness at bay. It hurt to move, hurt to breath and to talk, but when he was still the panic set in, making him want to run, to fight, to beat the barrier with his fists until his brain was fried and his knuckles were bloody. So he paced. And he planned.

Not that any of his plans were all that good. His mutterings were mostly centered on all the things he'd do once he was free, the trails of carnage he would leave behind him. As for just how he would get out in the first place, well, that he was still working on. But oh, the damage he had planned. He was practically immortal; he had all the time in the world to come back and bring vengeance down on the head of every soul in this cursed place. And God help anyone who stood between him and the exits on his way out. He would gut them like deer, eviscerate them, tear their throats out with bare hands and blunt teeth.

"And soldier boy is first," he muttered viciously, turning hard on the heel of his boot.

His broken ribs screamed with the movement, the vivisected muscles in his abdomen howling as he barely managed to keep his vocalizations down to a low hiss as he wrapped and arm around his torso, trying to quell some of the pain.

"You should eat."

The quiet words froze him in place and he gave her his full, undivided attention for the first time since she had helped to stuff him into his jacket. She looked better. Where he had undergone violent and horrible suffering at the hands of the science-bitch and her pet soldiers, she had come back in much better condition than she'd left in; fed, watered, bathed and bandaged. She was more alert, her dark eyes clear, a bit of color in her pale cheeks.

Strangely enough, he found himself grateful that their positions hadn't been reversed. Spike knew torture intimately, and could take a lot more of it than the girl could. If they wanted to care for his little blood bag instead of poke her full of holes, he could only count himself lucky. But her incessant requests that he feed from her both confused and irritated him. He would only scowl at her when she bared her wrists and neck, though hunger twisted in his gut and in his mind each time. He and his demon both knew how badly he needed blood; it had been days since his little sojourn outside the cell and he had yet to even halfway heal. He couldn't risk it. Though if he didn't get them out soon, risk wouldn't matter anymore.

She continued to stare at him, something like determination flickering at the back of her eyes. Spike sighed heavily before slouching down against the wall, trying to take some of the pressure off his ribs. He wanted a cigarette. Almost as much as he wanted to feed, to get out of this place, he just wanted one damn smoke. His hands searched his pockets in subconscious, futile movements, looking for the Zippo he knew was no longer on him. Annoyed with his roaming fingers, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

"What's your name luv?" he asked, flicking a glance at the ceiling. He didn't really care, but he was desperate to take his mind off the sudden hard craving for nicotine.

She shrugged, looking at the floor. "I am Feeder17,"

"Bollocks." Shrugging off the wall, he began to pace again. "_I_ am not a _hostile_, I'm SPIKE!" Damn right he was. Spike. Slayer of Slayers. William the freaking Bloody! Suddenly he felt very uncomfortable, disturbed by how often he had to remind himself of who he was down here. Stopping, he turned back to the girl again.

"And _you_ are not a _feeder_," he continued. She opened her mouth to contradict, sending a hot flash of annoyance through him. Flinging up a hand, he snapped at her before she could speak. "Even if that's what you think you are now," he pointed, "it's not what you always were. So let's try again. What _was_ your name?"

"I… I-I am Feeder17"

"I am _not_ calling you Feeder17!" he snarled.

She flinched. She had drawn herself up into a snug knot, her knees crushed tight to her chest, wrists locked, rocking gently back and forth. Something in her eyes hit him hard, like a bloody baseball bat to the gut. There was fear there, and confusion. She looked… completely lost, like she had no idea who she was. He recognized that look. It had been… well, a hundred years or so, but he'd worn that look himself once. He grimaced. Yeah, once upon a time…

"Listen," he began, wishing desperately for a smoke, "We're getting out of here." His voice seemed to draw her back into herself, the cloud of her thoughts moving away from her face. "When we do, you need to put this shit behind you. And speaking from experience? Giving yourself a new name can be a big part of that." The girl looked up at him quizzically, bringing a sarcastic smile to his face. "Thought me mum called me Spike then, did you sweetheart?"

She blushed, and he swallowed hard. That blush would be the thing that killed them both. It was hard on him already, the not killing her. He'd only fed twice, and both times it had been close. His need was huge, and his control was frayed. Nor was this any place for her. She wasn't eating enough, wasn't sleeping enough, wasn't getting any exercise; everything about this place was keeping her run down. He had tasted it in her blood, under the drugs and the pain. If he didn't get her out of here soon, get her built up, she was going to fade. And then so would he.

He backed away from her warily until his shoulders touched the wall near the barrier, sliding down it and kicking his feet out in front of him. From there he could watch the hallway, would be able to see the commando boys coming and going, and then hopefully he'd see the pattern he had yet to discern.

"Think about it luv," he murmured softly, shifting slightly to get a better angle. "This is your chance to choose. Your potential."


	11. Chapter 11

*****Author's Note*****

**Sorry for the delay guys. Finals and Graduation from college have taken precedence over fanfiction, but are now happily in the past. Here's an extra long chapter as penence (:**

**I'm going to break a rule of mine and say definitively that Feeder17 is NOT Faith. Many have speculated, and I wanted to put curiosity to rest. I didn't consider Faith when I layed out my character description, but this chapter will hopefully give you a better idea of who Feeder17 really is (a totally awesome OC of my own design!).**

**I'd also like to thank all of you who've alerted, favorited, and reviewed, with a special shout-out to ginar369! I love reviews, whether they come with love or critique.**

**Of course, all publicly recognized characters, quotes, and plot lines belong to the genious that is Joss Whedon. Everything else is mine.**

* * *

Spike's vigil at the door of the cell paid off. If he twisted his neck just right, he could see his three-doors-down neighbor, a panicked female vampire darting back and forth across the front of her cell in a frenzy, a rabid rat in a too-small cage. The soldiers and the white-coats had thrown a scrawny young man in with her, just the way they had with his girl, and he could only assume that a Feeder had just been introduced to his Hostile.

He watched with interest as the play unfolded, entirely different from the one he himself was living. The vampire was so frightened and shaken that she ignored the human sharing her quarters, staying as far from him as possible. Spike had felt a twinge of something like pity for her; she was clearly very young, almost incapable of acting without her sire's guidance. It really was too bad. Eventually she seemed to come to her senses a bit, grabbing the man by the throat and throwing him hard against the wall when he approached her, wrists out in supplication. An interrogation followed, the man's lips moving rapidly as he gasped out what Spike assumed was a similar explanation to that given him by his own Feeder.

Grimacing, he had shaken himself in an attempt to throw such thoughts away. She wasn't his Feeder, wasn't his anything. Just some girl who'd gotten the short end. He had his fingers crossed hard that she was wrong about the drugs, that they hadn't taken yet, and had locked his growing doubts tightly away in the back of his brain.

The science-bitch seemed to have learned from her mistakes this time, because after only eight hours of stillness from the cell down the way, a tray had been delivered and the young man's blood 'accidentally' spilled. The vampire's control snapped and she attacked, messily and with much waste.

_Youth_. Spike shook his head, watching blood spatter across the barrier. _What a mess_. She was hardly half as starved as he had been, but she fed with untidy abandon until the drugs latched hold of her and she passed out on top of her victim, her face still buried in the crook of his neck. Only moments later, the white-coats and the soldiers were back, only two of each, and Spike had to actively force himself to remain still, his expression schooled into a carefully neutral expression. The activity had peaked his interest, perked up his figurative ears, and now he watched the goings on with an intensity that could have melted ice.

There was quite a bit of movement down the hallway, but all stilted in a manner that suggested choreography, suggested the following of protocol and procedure. And that was good. Meant they were following a script, doing things the way they would be done from now on. Sure that first time had been muddled, the product of being unprepared, but the first rule of an experiment was uniformity. Spike could count on that.

The soldiers waited patiently at the door of the cell as the white-coats wheeled both gurneys inside, lifting first the vampire, then the man, strapping them each down in turn. They were then wheeled out, the soldiers closing the cell door with the swipe of a card and following the cots up the hallway. As they got closer, Spike looked away, feigning disinterest and hiding a smirk. The straps that held the vampire and the human down were thin; cotton at best, at worst only leather, easily broken through by even a weak vampire given that they were conscious. It would seem that the scientists and the soldier-boys were overly dependent on their little Molotov of drugs; there were only two straps to a gurney, one over the chest and upper arms, and one just above the knees. Not only that, but they were all unforgivably at ease, strolling nonchalantly down the hall.

As they disappeared off to his right, Spike smiled. Oh yes. This would do just fine. He could work with this.

* * *

After he deemed sufficient time passed, he shifted to his feet, testing himself as he did so. '_Steady enough for now_,' he supposed. Enough strength, enough control over the pain and the quivering weakness of body and mind that lived deep deep down. His demon grumbled in the back of his head, inconsolably irritable over the fix they were in. Unconscionable, that's what it was! He was Spike, William the Bloody; He should damn well be able to walk out that door whenever he damn well pleased and leave a trail of bodies to mark his way behind!

Spike shook his head. He was doing it again. _Focus, ya berk_! Right. Plenty of time for that later. Crossing the cell, he eased himself down next to the girl, who'd been unnaturally still and silent, for a human anyway, ever since their little spat about names and change and deciding who you were. He trembled at their closeness, at the scent of her, the heat that bled through his coat sleeve where his forearm pressed against hers. It took him a moment to collect himself, to feel confident that when he opened his mouth, real words would come out of it, not just drool and half-starved whimpers.

She beat him to the punch.

"Shadoe."

Slightly alarmed, he looked about the cell, but there was a distinct _absence_ of shadow there, only bright white and glaring fluorescence that filled every corner and leached the life from any complexion.

"Say again pet?"

"You're Spike," she murmured said softly, looking up at him, looking _through_ him. "I'll be Shadoe."

Spike narrowed his eyes, brows drawing down to meet in the middle in a look that didn't quite read.

"He doesn't like it," she muttered, hurt lancing through the words as she dropped her gaze again, pulling away. "Told you he wouldn't like it…"

Reaching across his own body, Spike caught her arm and pulled her firmly back down beside him.

"Doesn't matter what I like," he said, trying to catch her stare. She seemed scattered, drawing into herself, talking to people who weren't there. "Only matters what _you _like."

_Please God, don't let her be going nuts on me. Gotta get her outta here before she goes totally off her bird. Can't do it, not another one. Not like Dru all over again._

Reaching out, he took her chin roughly in his hand and forced her to look at him. "Seems to me it suits you just fine luv," he said. "You're dark enough. Get the feeling you'll be stickin' to me like a shadow once we're outta here too."

_Not to mention you're nothin' more than a walkin' talkin' shadow as it is. A slip of yourself, a reflection of something darker… of me._

Unnerved by his thoughts, he dropped his hand, and was relieved when the girl seemed to calm, settling back in at his side and letting her body relax, her legs stretching out in front of her instead of being crushed tight to her chest. He watched silently for a minute as she pointed her bare, delicate toes in a stretch. He tried to bite his tongue, but his curiosity, and quite possibly his fear, got the better of him.

"Who you been talkin' to luv?" he asked quietly, not brave enough to look at her, instead staring blankly at the wall. "Got somebody in there with you?"

"Voice," she muttered, apparently unconcerned.

"Know who it is?"

She shook her head.

And that was a good sign right? It wasn't the stars, it wasn't some creepy Victorian doll with dead eyes.

"It tell you things?"

"Sometimes."

"It tell you the future? Stuff that hasn't happened yet?"

"No," she said, her tone suddenly derisive. Accompanying the denial was a look that suggested to Spike that perhaps _he_ was the crazy one. "Doesn't show me anything. Just… says things I already know."

"Things you already know?" Spike whispered to himself, thoroughly confused. "You and this voice, you ever fight?"

"No. Sometimes. Sometimes it changes its mind. But we're the same in the end."

On this vaguely ominous note, it appeared that she was done talking, slouching down the wall and snuggling into his side, the hollow of her cheek finding his shoulder as her eyes fluttered shut.

Spike sat back, immensely uncomfortable with their position, but unwilling to wake her if she would sleep. He doubted that she would be any kind of help with an escape, but hoped that at the very least she could manage to keep herself out of any shackles in the process, and she would need all the strength she could hold onto for that. Turning over all the things she'd said in his mind, Spike tried to puzzle out just what he was dealing with.

He felt immense relief come with the idea that she wasn't completely out of her mind like his Sire was. She hadn't named the entity inside of her, couldn't identify it as something or someone other than a voice, and this suggested to him that it was not a splitting of her sanity, nor was it, for the same reasons, a demon or other nasty that had taken up residence inside her head. Could be that it was just her way of dealing with the Slayerness; she was new to it, and Buffy had been a prime example of how the Chosen One often sought to separate herself from her work to such an extreme extent that she could insist, even to herself, that she was two different people. But somehow that didn't seem to fit either. She'd said that they always agreed; hem-hawed a bit but that the voice only told her things she already knew, and that in the end they always agreed.

Spike felt a flash of something, some emotion that might have been pity if he were a man and not a monster. Poor kid had been down here God knows how long, suffered greatly at the hands of these wannabe Pavlovs. No memory, didn't know who she was, what she was called, couldn't recognize herself at all…

And just like that, it all clicked.

A wry laugh rumbled up through Spike's chest, his shaking shoulder's dislodging the sleeping girl. She blinked several times, looking up at him with confused, dark eyes.

"No more worries darlin'," he smiled softly. "Got you all figured out. There's nobody in that pretty little head of yours but you." Her sleepy confusion was almost endearing, and in a sudden fit of mercy, he explained. "That voice you hear, the one that always agrees with you? Sounds an awful lot like your voice doesn't it?" She thought a moment, then nodded, but he could tell that she still didn't understand. "It's just you luv. You been down here too long, don't know yourself anymore. That voice rattling round in your attic is yours. Your thoughts. Been you all the time. You just didn't know it."

He smiled with self-satisfaction, having puzzled it out, but she frowned.

"What if you're wrong?" she asked quietly, her voice breaking. "What if I'm just…?"

"Crazy?" She flinched, but Spike had always been of the school of thought that said ripping out a stake in one nice hard go hurt a lot less than trying to wriggle it out slow. Of course, some good old post-injury pain killers, preferably in the form of whiskey, never hurt anyone.

"Listen," he continued, "I've spent a lot of years with crazy. I've known it, intimately, for decades. Over a century. All those voices that whisper things in the dark, things that hurt…" Spike's voice almost cracked with the pain of remembering, remembering all the times that the stars or Miss Edith had driven Dru from his arms. "Anyway," he said brusquely, sniffing back tears, "It's not you. It's not you Shadoe. "

A small smile lit on her lips when he used her chosen name. What he didn't tell her was that it could be her, could easily be her. Dru had been _made_ mad by the treatment of Angelus, and while the Initiative had yet to resort to his levels of depravity, there was no doubt in Spike's mind that, given enough time, they would get there. Just one more reason to get the hell out of Dodge City while they still had the functioning capacity.

"You pay attention now yeah?" Leaning in as close as was reasonable, he dropped his voice and slurred his words to keep his lips from moving, doing all he could to keep that cameras and microphones from picking up on their conversation. "It's just about time to get out of here. We're only gonna have one shot at this, and I need you ready to go."

Pride flashed through Spike at the flame his words lit in her eyes. Just a mention of a chance was apparently enough for this girl. Her hands balled into tight fists at her sides, which she was trying valiantly to hide from the cameras.

"Ready," she breathed, so softly that only a vampire wound hear . "Do anything. Whatever you want. Just get us out of here."


	12. Chapter 12

Us. Spike's demon had grabbed onto that word like a bone, worrying it and refusing to let it go, purring happily over the pronoun. It _liked_ that word. Was right up there with words like _yes_ and _mine_. Downright possessive bastard he was. But he was gonna do it, get them _both_ out of here. He'd laid out his plan, such as it was, and told the girl… told _Shadoe_… her part in it.

_Just stay out of m' bleedin' way and don't get caught. And for God's sake, don't spook and take off runnin' pell-mell for the hills. You stay where I can see you._

He hoped it would be enough. Hoped _he_ would be enough. It had been decades since he'd doubted himself like this, since he'd feared that his fighting skills, his prowess wouldn't be enough to save him. Years since he'd feared for his life. Not even Prague had put this electric zing of fear down his spine, caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up and he didn't like the sensation. Oh, there was a reason he sought out the Slayers. They threatened his existence like no one else, made him work for the dead breath in his chest. Spike would take a fight where he found it with gusto, the more challenging the battle the better, but this was no fight. This was torture, plain and simple, sadistic fantasy lived out underground on creatures who had no way of fighting back. As someone who lived for the fight, for the delicate dance of fate, it sickened him.

And hopefully now it would fuel him. All the time that he waited, he turned that disgust, that anger, that _humiliation_ into drive. He could feel it burning in his muscles, bunching them and coiling them, a spring-loaded steel trap ready to snap shut under a feather's brush. For now he was having trouble containing it, bouncing on his haunches as he crouched in the back of the cell, but he knew that soon it would fade. A clamor down the hallway announced feeding time at the zoo, at least for some, and a pair of white-coats came along with a tray, sliding it through the barrier across the tiles as they had done before.

Spike's fangs itched. Show time.

Shadoe hooked the edge of the tray with her fingers from her position against the wall, pulling it in to her side. She threw him a look from underneath her eyelashes, one sure to mean a hundred different things that he didn't even try to puzzle out. Instead he watched with a kind of awe as she worked her way silently through the two water bottles, the applesauce, a crumbly, brick-shaped powerbar. She was willingly putting herself into his hands, ingesting the drugs with the understanding that he make sure she got out of here, unconscious or not, trusting him to carry her to safety.

In his head, Spike snorted derisively. She didn't trust him. She just knew her own worth. He would take her because he had to, no other reason. Because there was a chance that she was his only option of survival. And she would be right. He _would_ leave her behind if he could.

She was getting a tiny bit drowsy now, a little logy with the drugs, but it seemed he was right when he had assumed that it wasn't a chemical side-effect, but the blood loss that had put her out. Settling her weight back against the wall, she reached up and pulled her hair to the side, offering her neck, just as they'd planned. It drew his attention, that smooth column of skin, held his gaze and made his gut clench.

He'd known this would be hard, that he would be tempted, that his _demon_ would be tempted. Now, as he felt his body crawl forward in a predator's stalk, he knew it would be more than hard. It would be next to bloody impossible. He could feel the demon come down over his face, could feel the hyperawareness of his own body, could feel the blood singing, humming in hers.

Burying his face in her neck, he inhaled hard, scenting her, and it was close, so very close before he reigned in his snarling hunger and pulled back.

"Ready luv?" he choked softly.

The hand that rested on his forearm tightened almost imperceptibly in affirmation and he struck.

It was a shallow bite, just enough to show blood on her skin. Though he released her immediately, he kept his mouth close to her neck, miming a feed with tortured determination. The briefest taste of her, the smell of copper and the bright red of it screaming through all of his senses; if he hadn't planned on killing them all before, this moment, this greatest test of his strength would do it. He thanked every demon god there was when he felt her drop away, a bit theatrically perhaps, but convincingly enough. She was still conscious, and he thanked the gods for that too. He didn't know if he could carry her in his arms with blood free-flowing that close to his tongue.

Letting her go, he stood and backed away from her in a stumbling motion. With the back of his hand he smudged the bit blood on his lips down over his chin, a scream of color in the whiteness. His mind brought up the memory of their last little drug session, recalling the heavy feeling that had come down over his body, the timing of it all. Staggering back once more for good measure, he let himself crumple to the floor.

* * *

Spike's skull cracked hard off the tiles and he had to fight hard to keep a grimace from his face. He did his best to stay dead still. That thought almost brought a smile to his face, almost caused a laugh to shudder through his chest. _Focus_. This was just a side effect of the starvation, he knew. It had happened before. Dru had tied him up once for Angelus, but had forgotten where she'd left him. He'd started to wander then too, to drift. But no worries. Spot of blood, spot of violence, he'd be right as rain.

Straining to listen, the only sound that came to his ears was the steady drumming of the heart of the girl lying near his feet. She was still conscious, judging by the pace of it, the steadiness. That was good. There was a low beep, and the pressure in the cell wooshed out, sounds and smells, clean air and two more steady heartbeats flooding in. Nice and calm, no scents of elevated adrenaline or fear. Also good.

Spike waited. Footsteps approached, came deeper into the cell, and then there were hands on him, one set grabbing his ankles, another fisting in the shoulders of his jacket. And still he waited. He held his body limp when they lifted him, until he was placed down on the stretcher. He could feel the man above him, could sense the shadow that fell when he leaned over to grab the straps that would restrain Spike.

His eyes flashed open, golden, hot liquid anger. Before the humans had even noticed that he wasn't unconscious, he had reached up with both hands and snapped the neck of the white-coat standing over him, before turning his attention on the one at his feet.

"Sorry mate," he smiled viciously, showing a mouthful of sharp teeth. "Can't stay."

Leaping forward, he grabbed the man's head and twisted hard, before sinking his teeth deep into his neck and drawing hard, fast mouthfuls of hot blood, as much as he could manage in the five seconds he hoped he could spare. Energy course through him, fueling his limbs before pooling in his abdomen, where hopefully it would begin to repair some of the internal damage done in Dr. Frankenstein's lab. Dropping the body, he darted around the second gurney, jerking the keycard from the science man's lab coat as he went.

Shadoe was already halfway to her feet, her eyes glued to the bodies cluttering their cell. Spike grabbed her elbow roughly and hauled her to her feet, hoping that they wouldn't have to stop for her to boot; she was looking a little green around the gills. Dragging her into the hallway, he looked frantically left and right, his animal instincts screaming for an exit. The demons in the cells that lined the walls were going absolutely crazy; jumping, screaming, beating on the electrified barriers, begging. He wished he had the time to free them. They could use the cannon fodder. But it just wasn't in the cards.

Keeping a tight grip on his girl, Spike prayed that his instincts were in working order and took off in the direction that felt like an escape, running as fast as his and Shadoe's legs could carry them. Sad really, that she was keeping up with him. The thought of just how bad a shape he was in flitted through his mind before he took a hard left, rounding a corner and coming face to face with no less than seven heavily-armed commando soldiers.

"Shit!"


	13. Chapter 13

"Shit!"

Spike's brain had read the scene the moment he had come around the corner. High on the wall, perhaps twenty yards away, was their salvation; a vent just wide enough for a starved body to squeeze through. Cool, clean air came down through it, and though he had no idea where it led, as long as it went up and out he didn't care. The only thing standing in his way was a group of seven little tin soldiers.

Pushing Shadoe behind him, Spike leapt into the fray without a thought. He was finally getting his fair fight, and luckily for him, he was good at it. Before the commandoes had even reacted to seeing their prisoners loose in the hallway, Spike had jumped the nearest two and smashed their heads together, their skulls splintering on impact. Licking blood from his fingers, he ignored the tingling on his tongue and turned to the remainder, who stood momentarily frozen in fear. Bad move boys.

"Five to go," he grinned evilly.

It was a hard fight. All five came at him at once, and while one went down quickly with a broken neck, the rest did not. They were landing solid punches, and while Spike was glad they'd gone for him and not the girl, he could only wonder at why they weren't using their guns. One jerked his arm up behind his back and latched a handcuff around his wrist, giving him his answer. They needed their test subject alive.

A sudden fear flooded through him; he couldn't go back into that cell. He would die in there, worse, go mad. Letting the fear power him, he quickly downed two more, before twisting the last body underneath him and sinking his teeth into the soft throat. A vicious shake of his head and it was all over. Taking a step back, Spike panted with exertion, high on the adrenaline, on the fight.

"And then there were none," he chuckled darkly.

His Docs slipped across the floor, red sprayed in graceful arcs over the walls. God what a glorious mess. He wanted to slide in it, roll, in it, lap it quickly from the tiles like a dog before it cooled. Six bodies worth, how many pints was that? Six times twelve… six? Wait. Weren't there…

"Aaaarrrrggghhh!"

Whipping around, Spike was shocked to see Shadoe on the back of the last commando, the brunette who'd taunted them so mercilessly. He'd been sneaking up on Spike, stun gun charged, but now he was gasping for air. One arm tight around his neck, Shadoe's right hand had become a vicious hook, raking claws down over the commando's brow and cheek. Spike smirked as soldier boy screamed in pain, blinded by the trails of blood pouring into his eye. Grabbing the gun from his distracted hands, Spike smashed it against the wall. Prying Shadoe away, he hesitated for a fleeting moment before landing a solid spin kick to his enemy's ribs, sending him flying off down the hallway. He would come back for that one. He and the blonde science-bitch had a nice _slow _death coming for them. Jerking the screen off the vent, he lifted Shadoe and unceremoniously stuffed her inside, hauling himself up after her.

* * *

Shadoe was hyperventilating when Spike finally pulled her up out of the ground and slammed the hatch shut. She huddled at his side, hunched over her knees, gasping and heaving, tears streaming down her face. For a moment nothing happened and her mind raced, replaying the scenes of carnage she had just witnessed. Then a tentative hand rested on her back and began to make small, soothing circles, and all those thoughts faded away.

Her breathing calmed when she should have flinched, should have thrown off the hand that had so recently caused so much bloodshed and run screaming, but she didn't. Because that same hand, raised in so much violence, was now trying its best to give her comfort. It was true, what the voice in that cell had said; her Hostile was a killer. But he hadn't hurt _her_, and that was the point. He had _saved_ her. They were out.

"We're out," she choked, the words ragged in her throat. "We're out."

"Out of the cage luv," said his voice from beside her. "Not out of the woods."

Alarmed, she quickly sat up and looked over at him. What she saw terrified her. He looked a gut-wrenching mix of well and terrible; thin and starved, injured and trembling with exertion, blood spattered across his face and dripping in thick trails down his leather coat. At the same time, there was a gleam in his eye that suggested an adrenaline rush and morbid joy, a flush along his cheekbones that spoke of his recent feeding.

A sudden fear went through Shadoe, coursing cold through her veins. He had fed. Not much, but he _had_ fed, from one of the men who had come into their cell. Not from her. Shadoe's world began to fall away, but in that moment, Spike paled and his arm flashed tight to his abdomen as he bent at the waist and began to jerk violently. His body was rejecting the blood, trying to purge itself, but he was so starved that at the same time it was also hanging on, clinging to the only small mouthfuls of nourishment it had gotten in days.

Shadoe watched in misery as he warred with himself, in intense and obvious agony. One hand clutched at the earth, supporting his upper half, and she reached out to cover it with her own. To her surprise, he gripped her fingers as if she were a lifeline, and slowly but surely fought down the spasms that wracked him. After a moment of still silence, he sucked in a great lungful of air, steeled himself, and wobbled to his feet.

"Well that was a slap and a tickle," he said in a shaky voice.

She didn't respond.

"Come on," he said, reaching down to help pull her to her feet. "Need to get away from here."

Turning on his heel, he began to walk briskly away. Shadoe darted a glance left and right, distinctly uncomfortable in this dark world, but it appeared to be deserted, so she put her fear aside for the time being and broke into a jog to catch up. They walked along a sidewalk for a bit in silence, and she used the time to try and quickly reacquaint herself with the world around her. Her memories from before the Initiative were vague and hazy, and mostly unhelpful. She had gotten her general bearings, but had no idea where or even when she was. All she knew was that her future was walking in front of her, and she would follow. As long as he was there, she was safe.


	14. Chapter 14

**Sorry for the delay. This chapter is a bit of a transition chapter, and I struggled getting it together. I'm still not quite satisfied with ****_all_**** of it, but I couldn't in good conscience make you all wait any longer! Of course, I own nothing but my own characters and plotlines, and any recognizable people, places, plots, or quotes belong to Joss Whedon and Co.**

**Also – Reviews are of the good! Let me know what you think (:**

* * *

"Stay here," Spike commanded, leaving Shadoe in the passageway that led into the cave he and Harmony had been staying in. She let out a whimper of fear in the dark, but he didn't look back at her, only swept away down the tunnel with his duster held tightly around his middle. His stomach was rolling violently on him, making him feel weak and dizzy, and quite frankly miserable, and he wasn't in the mood for the task before him.

He could hear Harmony clattering around on her ridiculous high heels long before he stepped into the cave's central chamber. He entered cautiously, unsure of what to expect, but a few sniffs and a quick listen assured him that she was the only one in the cavern. Stepping inside, he rounded a corner to find her leaning over a small table in front of the bed they'd been sharing, taping a poster of a unicorn to the stone wall. Spike scoffed and rolled his eyes.

Whipping around, Harmony's face flashed shock before cracking a huge smile. "Blondie bear!" she squealed, throwing up her arms and coming at him for a hug.

Spike ducked her easily, his movements stiff with pain and irritation. Harmony's smile fell into a pout, upset that he had evaded her hug.

"Pretty busted up Harm." He touched a hand to his t shirt as he threw out the excuse. "Don't need you hanging on me."

"Spike, where have you been?" she asked, moving towards him again.

Spike backed away, circling around the table in an effort to keep it between them. "You care now?" he asked, anger coloring his tone. "I've been gone what? Almost two weeks? Did you even ask around Harm?"

"I didn't know," she declared. "I just thought, you know, that you went off." She shrugged her shoulders, her words turning into a whine. "Guys do that sometimes, right? I mean, the guys I usually date go off alone all the time. They just say they need man-time!"

"For two weeks?!" Spike snarled. He was at one time both furious and depressed, his mind spinning with the thought that he could go missing for two weeks, leave no word or trace, and no one would notice, that he could be held in a cell and tortured for days with no one looking for him. "Bugger that!"

"Spikey," she whined, sidling around the table. Unwilling to play ring-around-the-sodding-furniture, Spike let her approach. She immediately began running her hands down the lapels of his duster, fingering the buttons of his shirt. "You're being mean," she pouted. "Why don't we just…"

Spike hissed as she tried to push him back onto the bed, his cracked ribs screaming. With one hand, he thrust her back, the other arm wrapping protectively around his middle as he hunched over, snarling and trying to get a handle on the pain.

"Blondie bear, you're hurt!"

"Told you that already you stupid bint!" he growled, gasping for breath. Straightening slowly, he glared at the ditzy vampire, before turning away from her. Casually plucking up a battle axe from where it rested near the cave wall, he gave it an experimental twirl before discarding it. "This isn't going to work Harmony," he said as bluntly and as clearly as he could, turning back to face her. "You need to leave."

Hurt and horror colored her face, her eyes going wide and teary. "What? But… Spike…" Suddenly her tone changed. Her lower lip jutted out and she cocked her shoulders back, not-so-subtly plumping up her assets. "You don't really mean that…"

"Sorry luv," he said. "Not this time." Spike turned and walked away from her, tossing one last command over his shoulder. "Be gone when I get back!"

* * *

Beneath the University of Sunnydale, sirens blared, calling all units to their stations. Dr. Maggie Walsh paced as she waited for her last three team members of her Hostile Containment Team, Riley, Grant, and Forrest, to arrive. They were the youngest of her soldiers, still masquerading as college students, and that made them the most difficult to fully control, but they were also her best. At least Riley was. And it was on him that she now counted. She wanted Experimental Pair 17 back.

* * *

Spike flinched at the crash that echoed down the tunnel walls following his exit. He had no doubt that one of Harmony's ridiculous little ceramic horse things had suffered the wrath of her temper tantrum, but he couldn't bring himself to mourn for the thing. Harmony was a mistake whom he should've told to hit the bricks months ago; his current situation was only the boot in the ass that hurried along the inevitable. The girl was stupid, on top of that jealous, which made for a potentially lethal combination. Not for him, but for his girl.

"Dammit, not your girl, ya sod!" he snarled quietly to himself. "Your meal ticket!"

Whatever. Either way, Harm saw him with some other bird, she'd probably go on the offensive. Not that Harmony was any great fighter, but against a human, she could do fatal damage. Even if Shadoe was a Slayer, the girl was weak right now, in the body and in the head. She wouldn't stand a chance. He was going to have to find a way to keep her safe.

Rounding a bend, he came upon her crouched on the floor with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. At his approach, her head flicked up, eyes burning into him. He had expected to see accusation in them at his abandonment of her, however temporary, but all he saw was an overwhelming amount of relief, and even happiness. It threw him for quite a loop, he was ashamed to admit. No one had looked so truly happy to see him in… God how long?

Shadoe rose unsteadily to her feet and fell in close at his side. The invasion of his space made Spike itch. He didn't particularly want her near him, even less than he had wanted to be touched by Harmony. Especially when he could hear her heart beating away so steadily, could _feel_ the blood moving through her, taunting him. God he was starving. But her body was as unsound as his own, and he knew in his bones that if he didn't wait, at least until she was a bit more stable, that he would kill her.

And so he was torn. Half of him wanted to get away from her, far away; from what she was - a Slayer, and what she meant for him – a too short life on a restricted diet. Away from the mocking, teasing song of her blood thrumming so close to the surface, so willingly offered, but which he couldn't take. And the other half? Well that was the confusing bit wasn't it? A protective urge was rising in him, born of necessity, but it was beginning to feel like more, and he hated it. Hated the way she looked at him, like he was her whole world, and loved it at the same time.

God his head was splitting. Massaging his temples with his fingertips, he willed the pain to leave, attempted to settle his thoughts in an effort to dull the ache. He would kill for a sweet little mentholated pack of smokes. A distraction! That's what he needed. A spot of violence, spot of fun, just what the doctor ordered until he could get himself a drink. He eyed Shadoe speculatively as she stood quietly next to him, estimating just how long it would be until he could sink his teeth into his own personal blood font.

Right. Distraction. He knew just where to find one.

"Come on," he said, turning to leave the tunnel. "Gotta go see about a girl."


	15. Chapter 15

Sad really, how easy it was to hack the University's system. Once he got them inside the administration office, it took less than twenty minutes to find the red witch's dorm room assignment. And that was saying something when you considered that it took twelve for the ancient desktop computer to boot up. He scrolled quickly down the list; he didn't know the girl's last name, could only remember that she was named after some kind of tree. There was an Ash Howard, but that didn't sound right, so he kept going until he hit on a Willow – Rosenberg apparently.

"Hello, gorgeous," he murmured, a grin curling his mouth.

A frown flickered over Shadoe's face, catching Spike's eye. She'd been silent since they'd left the caves, smoothly keeping pace behind him. She moved like her namesake; quietly, softly, following close on his heels, mirroring his movements. He was impressed; the girl could have a shining future in breaking and entering. He himself could feel the catches in his own stride; pain, hunger, and exhaustion making him drag his feet.

He didn't really have a plan when he started out across campus towards the dorms. Taunt the red-witch a bit, find out what happened to the Slayer if he could, but he hadn't thought past that. Sure, he'd kicked Harmony out, but the cave was damp and musty, not at all a good place to store something as important as this girl could turn out to be. Trudging up a back stairwell, Spike slowed as he passed a young coed sobbing into her cell phone, alone and isolated.

Spike's stomach rumbled. He was still nauseas from the episode earlier, but he was starving and he knew it. He needed the blood, to heal, to help him think more clearly, but he had a nasty suspicion that were he to try eating something other than the girl again, the consequences would be much worse. So he left the student alone, slipping from the stairwell into the hallway and counting the door numbers until he found the one he was looking for. Taking Shadow by the shoulders, he stationed her in the recess beneath the jamb.

"Stay here," he commanded for the second time. The girl nodded, her face tipped down as she studied the pattern in the carpet. Spike frowned, getting the impression that she was sulking, but left her to it, turning to the door and knocking softly.

"Come in."

He recognized the voice on the other side of the door, and his mouth curled in a toothy grin. Should know better than that little girl. She might not know who she was inviting in, but the magic didn't care. It was enough. Twisting the knob, he slipped inside, leaving the door ajar behind him.

"Spike!"

Now _that _was what he liked to see! The girl had been reclining on her bed, apparently staring at the wall, but at the sight of him she had leapt to her feet and skirted around it in an attempt to put it between them. Ah, fear. It was a beautiful thing, to be respected like that. He hadn't realized how bothered he'd been, being stuck in a glass box and treated like a lab rat, being watched without trepidation, as if he were only as dangerous as a kitten without its claws. He shot her a grateful smile, though from the way she paled he had the feeling that's not quite what it looked like on her end.

"Wh… What do you want?" she stammered. "A spell? I can do that."

"Nah Red," he purred, circling into the room, watching her as she eyed the door. "You're not gettin' off that easy this time."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when she bolted, breaking for the open door. It only took two steps for him to put himself into her path, catching her easily around the waist and throwing her back where she collided harshly with a table.

"None of that now luv," he smiled. "Just want a couple questions answered. Know you're in mourning." He smirked when pain flashed across her face. "So you just be a good lil' witchling and I'll get out of your hair."

She watched him warily as he stalked around the front of the room, eyeing her, scenting her fear in the air and listening to her heart pound. Finally, when he couldn't stand the silence anymore, he smiled at her.

"So tell me pet," he said sweetly, "How did the Slayer go? Was it bloody? Was it slow? Oh, tell me it was painful!"

"Wha… Spike what are you talking about?"

The girl looked genuinely confused, and for some reason it rubber Spike the wrong way. "Don't tell me you've forgotten her already?" he sneered. "It's only been what? Few weeks? Thought you two bints were close."

"You… you mean Buffy?" she asked. "Spike I don't know what you heard but…"

"Oh don't even try that bluffin' shite on me!" he snapped, slashing an arm through the air. "I already know the Slayer's dead, she's gotta be!"

"Sorry to disappoint," the witch replied, her mouth tight. "Buffy's alive. She's on her way back right now, so if you don't wanna get your butt kicked again, you better get out of here!"

Well she certainly sounded confident, Spike would give her that. He hadn't realized the bird could lie so well. Maybe there was hope for her after all. But he knew. Stalking in close, he leaned over her as she arched back over the bed, trying to keep space between their bodies.

"Wanna know how I know you're lying?" he murmured in her ear, savoring the sound of her pounding pulse. "Wanna know how I know she's dead? I can show you. Found some pretty interesting things in the past few weeks. Seems the new Slayer's already here in Sunnyhell. She's standin' right outside that door."

"That's not possible!" Willow gasped, pushing uselessly against his chest. "Buffy's not dead!"

"God give it up!" Spike snarled, standing upright and pulling Willow with him, hauling her across the floor towards the door. "Only one Slayer and she's…" Suddenly the lights went dead, and shouts began to echo up and down the hallway. "Oi! Shadoe?" he called.

Dropping Willow's arm, Spike leapt towards the door and flung in open, just in time for Shadoe's scream to explode in his ears. Flashing into game-face, he looked frantically through the dark, his mouth dry as his fangs pricked at his gums.

"Spike!"

Spinning around, he caught a glimpse of two soldiers holding tight to his girl's arms, and the fear on her face was like a knife in his gut. Jumping into the fray with a roar of anger, Spike attacked, punching and kicking and slashing his way through the soldiers that had flooded the darkened hallway. As he delivered a particularly violent hit to a collar bone, Shadoe screamed again, and he turned automatically towards the sound, getting a glimpse of the girl's arm being twisted violently behind her back before everything went dark.

He felt hands grip his own arms and wrench them behind him, zip cuffs quickly being wrapped tight around his wrists. Some sort of bag had been thrown over his head, so he struggled to hear, to listen for something that would help him get out of this.

"Got 'em!" a voice yelled near his ear.

"Everybody out!" another yelled. Oh, that voice he knew. Soldier boy was gonna regret the day he crossed William the Bloody, and every day of the very few he had left, if it was the last thing Spike did.

"What about the girl?"

"I thought you had her?"

"The other girl!"

"Leave her! Let's go!"

"We can't…"

Spike took advantage of the confusion, snapping his plastic cuffs with a vicious wrench of his wrists. Amateurs. First rule of playing soldier; you follow your commanders orders, immediately and without question. Their loss. Jerking the bag off his head, he threw the two soldiers at his sides at the wall, one skull cracking loudly at the impact. A burst of hot air flared down the hallway, bringing Spike a scent that he'd never thought to cross again. Buffy.

No. That wasn't possible. What the bloody hell… Somewhere in the dark glass shattered, and the sound of a fire extinguisher being discharged jolted him out of his shock. Leaping forward, he threw bodies left and right, fighting his way through the throng until he reached his prize. She'd been bagged and cuffed as he had, but he quickly released her from her bonds, trying to ignore the look that crossed her face when he pulled the bag off her head.

Turning back to the fight, he caught a glimpse of Buffy swinging the canister of the fire extinguisher at a soldier's head with all her usual grace and style. He loved watching Slayers fight, but he supposed now wasn't the time. Waiting for just the right moment, he darted forward, dragging Shadoe past the battle and up the hallway. Shouting reached his ears, commands to contain the Hostile and the Feeder, letting Spike know that it was really time to go, but the hallway was a dead end.

Maybe not.

Picking Shadoe up, he pitched her forward and through the window near the ceiling, the pane shattering into a thousand tiny pieces of glass. Taking a step back, he ran forward, leaping high and somersaulting through the window after her, just as something in the hallway behind him exploded, fire chasing on his heels.


	16. Chapter 16

They ran for what felt like hours but what was probably only minutes, the girl limping along at his side. She had wrenched an ankle upon landing after her unexpected flight, but was doing her level best to keep up and not whimper with the pain. Spike knew how she felt. He himself was having trouble controlling the sounds coming out of his mouth as he helped her along. The glass of the window had cut her pretty badly, dozens of thin lacerations marking her face, neck, and arms. Finally, he couldn't take it any longer.

Ducking into an empty alleyway, he flipped a wooden crate with his boot and sat her down on it, sinking to his knees at her feet. Another panic attack was building inside of her; he could see it in the way her glassy eyes darted frantically back and forth, checking all the entrances to the alley, even the rooftops. If there was anything he could say for that underground lab, it was that it had left her with good instincts for a trap.

As her chest began to heave with strangled breaths, he pushed his own needs away, taking her face in his hands.

"Take it easy pet," he murmured, stroking her cheekbones with his thumbs. "Got us out didn't I?" She nodded her head in a way that didn't quite convince Spike that his words were actually penetrating it. "Hey! Relax! Not gonna let them take you again. Never again luv. All righ'? I promise. You're not goin' back there."

He didn't know why he said it. He didn't make promises, especially not to humans. If he did, it was without ever intending to keep them. But even as the words were leaving his mouth, Spike knew that this was one vow he intended to follow through on, no matter the cost. He would chalk it up to food aggression, make himself feel better, but there was no way in hell they were getting her back down there.

However he felt about what he had said, his words had managed to calm Shadoe, saving them ten to twenty minutes of hysterics and hyperventilating. She was still exhaling shakily, but much of the tension had gone out of her muscles, and her eyes were closed as she brought herself back under control.

"Good girl," Spike murmured. "Take it easy."

Letting go of her face, he moved to her ankle, rolling up her pant leg a bit and running his fingers down the delicate bones there. Gently pressing against the tendons, he rotated her foot, turning it this way and that as he listened, checking to see how bad the injury was. They were lucky; it was only the mildest of sprains, and her Slayer… well, her _accelerated_ healing, would have it good as new in no time. She hadn't had any shoes when they'd escaped, and holding her bare foot in his palm made Spike realize that he needed to get her some soon. Her feet were scraped and dirty, only just this side of bloody, and he ran his fingertips softly along her sole, again checking for injury.

With a small gasp she jerked her foot out of his hand, and Spike smiled up at her. "Ticklish luv?" he asked.

She didn't reply, but her cheeks pinked and gave her away. The blush reminded him of his original purpose, the reason he'd stopped their flight in this dark and dirty alleyway. Taking a wrist in his hand, he pulled her arm out straight, no longer surprised when she didn't resist. Pushing her sleeve as high as it would go, just above her elbow, he brought her wrist to his mouth, kissing the pulse point gently to reassure her. He could sense her nervousness; she knew just as well as he did that she hadn't much to give. None the less, he couldn't resist laving the skin that covered the veins there with his tongue, pretty blue tracings under the milky paleness.

Moving up her arm, he let the scent of her spilled blood invade him, filling up his head as he breathed her in. There was something familiar about the way she smelled underneath the dirt and the sweat and the fear, and that sharp, too sweet smell of a clinical laboratory, but he just couldn't make it out. The blood that had dried in thin streaks on her skin was too strong, and as sure as he was that further feeding from her was a mistake, he couldn't stop himself.

It took all of his self-control not to bite down, not to reopen her skin where the blood flowed hot. Instead he had to content himself with the old, rust-colored smudges that marked her where each thin cut was slowly closing. With great difficulty he held back his fangs, while at the same time allowing his tongue to roughen, much the way a cat's was. Tiny hooks on its surface stimulated the skin, bringing the blood to the surface, but worked just as well for scraping up every precious flake of the dried substance that he could get.

Finishing with one arm he moved on to the other, noticing that Shadoe's head had fallen back and was lolling lazily, exposing the slender curve of her neck. Spike quickly dropped his eyes, fully aware that his control was hanging by a thread. To his pleasure, he found a cut high on the inside of her right forearm that was slightly deeper than the others, still open and weeping blood. Though he'd told himself he wouldn't, he sealed his lips around the wound and suckled like a child, pulling as much as he could from the small laceration. He compensated for it by telling himself that he'd let her keep her shirt on, though it would prevent him accessing the cuts on her upper arms and shoulders. No, he wouldn't do that to her. He'd satisfy himself with what he could reach on the sides of her face, steer as clear of her neck as he could, and that'd be that. For now.

Or maybe not. She was looking at him again, in that way that made him uncomfortable, like he was her everything. It was the way he had always wanted to be looked at, and the way that he couldn't stand to have _her _look at him.

'_Why_?' he thought desperately as he stared at her. '_Why like this_?' It wasn't fair.

No one answered him, certainly not her. Sighing, he put his hands on his thighs, preparing to push himself to his feet once more. The few teaspoons he had managed to get off of her had done nothing but wake his appetite, fill his mouth with the sweet taste of her and remind him of how hungry he really was. Her hand on his face gave him pause.

It was a fleeting touch, there and gone, three fingertips to his cheek and then nothing. He could've imagined it, but her words proved it a reality.

"Thank you."

"For what pet?" he asked. What had he done to deserve thanks, praise?

"For everything."

Spike sighed. He couldn't respond, didn't know how, and part of him didn't care to. Why not be the selfish bastard just once and take the praise, accept the thanks that was given and run with it, regardless if it was deserved or not. Rising to his feet, he held out a hand to her, pulling her up off the crate when she took it.

"C'mon pet," he said wearily. "Let's get outta here. Sun'll be up in a few hours."

And so, starving, bleeding, and exhausted, the Hostile and his Feeder walked into the night. A thousand thoughts ran through the mind of the first, while the second was content to simply follow, trusting him, believing enough in his promise that she could possibly, maybe, sleep without dreams.


	17. Chapter 17

Spike could've cried when he finally got them back to the safety of the cave. He thought he could probably sleep for a lifetime. And from the way she stumbled along ahead of him down the tunnel, so could the girl. A good long sleep then. And when they finally woke up, Spike would stuff her with sugary things and enough vitamins to choke a horse. Iron too. Iron was good for blood donors right? Then maybe he could have a decent meal himself.

Stepping into the main room of the cavern, he watched apathetically as Shadoe gazed about, examining the rock walls and the stalactites hanging from the ceiling in silence. This wasn't the place for her, he knew that, but there wasn't anything he could do about it now. Intent on his bed, he gestured for her to follow, and headed into the antechamber. The sight that greeted him stopped him cold.

Shit. What was she doing here?

"Thought I told you to piss off Harm," he said carelessly.

"Aww, I knew you didn't mean it Blondie Bear," she purred. Toying with the strap of her bra, she thrust out her bottom lip, stretching her underwear-clad body languidly across the sheets. "So I just waited for you to come back. Where'd you go any…" Suddenly Harmony's eyes lit up and she licked her lips, leaning out around Spike to look behind him. "You brought me a treat?"

Without thought, Spike reached back and pushed Shadoe behind him, letting out a vicious snarl. He had felt her enter the room behind him, but had no idea how to diffuse the situation. This could go very badly, and the action he had just taken, showing possessive behaviors in front of Harmony, was exactly the thing that could make it all blow up in his face.

"She's _mine_ Harm," he said, as calmly as he possibly could with every nerve in his body screaming.

"Wait a minute," she huffed, sitting up in the bed. He could almost see the little cartoon light bulb flashing above her head. "You… you _break up_ with me and then come back an hour later with some little…"

"Watch your mouth," Spike growled dangerously, cutting her off. "Be very, very careful, Harmony."

"No, you know what Spike?" she cried jumping up off the bed and stalking over to him. "You be careful!" Planting her hands on his chest, she gave him a good shove, causing him to stumble backwards. Looking down at her hands in awe, she returned her gaze to his and her eyes had gone gold. "You be careful Spike," she repeated, the knowledge of his weakened state gleaming in her eyes.

"You treat me like crap!" she cried, pressing her advance as he backed away from her, one hand behind him as he pushed Shadoe back too. "You're a total jerk when you're around, which is like, never! And now you come back with _her_?"

"Harm, this is ridiculous!" Spike snapped, trying to put some bravado into his voice. "There's no way I'm fightin' you unless you put some bloody clothes on first!"

"Oh I'm not fighting you Spike," she smiled around a mouthful of teeth. "I'm breaking up with you. You hear me? _I'm_ breaking up with _you_!" Darting out a hand, she snatched a ceramic unicorn from a table and pitched it at his head. He only just managed to duck it. "So get out!" she yelled, reaching for another unicorn. "Just get out!"

Spike had continued to back away from the onslaught, barraged as he was by flying pieces of crappy art, but when she suddenly came up a stake and held it out in front of her, he knew there was no winning this one. Grabbing Shadoe by the arm, he turned tail and ran, back down the tunnel and out of the caves, Harmony shouting something that sounded suspiciously like 'And don't come back!' after him.

* * *

He took her to the factory. Nothing but bad memories there, and it had been condemned and boarded up since he'd last been (apparently the cheerleader had fallen through the stairs and skewered herself like a shish kebab), but he couldn't think of anywhere else for them to go. It would only be for the night; then he could steal some dosh and get them a cheap motel room until he found something more permanent.

Hunting around the exterior walls, he found a spot where some boards were weak over a shattered window. Taking hold with both hands, he planted his boot against the wall and jerked with everything he had. Nails squealed in protest as the wood came slowly away from the window; two more and there was a space big enough for them to slip through. Handing Shadoe through, he took care that she didn't catch herself on the jagged glass before following himself.

Well. The place had really been let go. Support struts were falling down, there was trash piled up in the corners, and a thick layer of dust covered everything in sight. It was disgusting, even by vampire standards, and they were lucky it was. Not a demon in sight. Gripping Shadoe's wrist lightly, he lead her through the dark towards the stairs. There was a large, rough hole about halfway down, and he could see sharp blocks of broken cement and spikes of rebar below. After a moment's consideration, he picked the girl up by the waist and lowered her down carefully to the steps on the other side.

The muscles in his biceps quivered with the effort, a bad sign considering how light she was. Skin and bone, he could feel her ribs beneath his palms. What a sad, sorry pair they were. Leaping down lightly to her side, he continued down into the darkness of the lower level. He was hoping… yes, it was still there. The sheets and pillows had been stripped, leaving only the mattress behind, but a bed was a bed. Even if Dru and Angelus had…

Spike snarled softly to himself, trying to shut his brain up. At his side, Shadoe cringed at the sound, and he immediately felt like a git. She had willingly followed him into the dark where she couldn't see what was around her, couldn't see danger coming or know that the walls weren't closing in on her until she was locked into a box-like cell, and he returned that trust by standing next to her and rumbling like a jackass.

"Easy," he murmured sullenly, irritated both that he had frightened her and that he felt the need to apologize for it.

Stepping forward, he gave the mattress a good hard kick, making sure there weren't any vermin nesting inside it. When nothing came scurrying out, he slipped his duster from his shoulders and wrapped it tight around Shadoe's. She'd need the warmth more than he before the night was over. Guiding her to the edge of the bed, he waited until she climbed on scooched to the other side before he lay down as well, his boots still firmly on his feet.

There was a deep ache in his belly where he'd been sliced open and rearranged, and lying down on his back only caused the pain to flare. He groaned softly as he let his body sink into the mattress, feeling as if he were melting, his form fizzling out into nothing. It frightened him, that sensation. He imagined being dusted might feel the same. Fisting his hands at his temples, his breathing grew ragged as he fought to control the darkness rolling over him, to pull the particles of his being back into place again, but was unable until a warm body suddenly eased up against his side, settling into the curve of his arm.

The slow, smooth rhythm of her breathing, the dull, steady thump of her heartbeat centered him, focused him. The faint smell of her blood, the even fainter smell of _her_, her _skin_, was calming, though he didn't know why, and even though he remained lying stiffly, unwilling to pull her any closer, the simple presence of the girl let him finally slip into slumber.


	18. Chapter 18

"No," Spike muttered under his breath. "No, can't… can't go back there…"

Coming slowly awake, he was blinded by the harsh white light that filled the small cell he found himself in as soon as he opened his eyes. It took him a moment to adjust, to recognize where he was, but then it all came flooding back; the soldiers, the stun guns, the underground labs. He had tried. He really had. But he'd failed. They'd caught him again.

Dread consumed him and he scrambled up, only making it as far as his knees as he fought against the horrific pain the laced through his body with every movement. Movement outside the transparent electrolyzed barrier caught his eye, and what he saw made Spike, Master Vampire and Slayer of Slayers, cringe. The blonde science-bitch stood only feet away, a clipboard in her hand as she scribbled furiously, her eyes never leaving his face. Behind her stood others; the brunette that so loved to torment him, the white-coated doctors, the other little soldiers with their guns and their crosses, all there, all watching him intently with blank faces. Like a dog in a cage.

Showing his teeth, Spike tried to snarl menacingly, but no sound came out. Solider boy laughed raucously, shaking with mirth and pointing at Spike's neck. Looking down at himself, he realized for the first time that he was shirtless; his duster was gone and his chest was bear and bloody. Bringing his hands to his neck, he found a thick leather collar buckled there, a small tag plated on it engraved with the moniker "Hostile 17." In a panic he began to claw at his neck in a frantic effort to get it off, drawing blood as his nails dug viciously at the buckle, but the thing only seemed to grow tighter, his throat tight with fear.

Suddenly he was jerked savagely onto his back, the collar twisting harshly around his neck. He yelped when he hit the tiles, finding his voice again. Looking up from his position on the floor, his stomach dropped. A leather leash attached to a thick ring on his collar stretched out and away from him; following the strap with his eyes, he found held in a tight grip by a smooth, slim figure draped in the shadow. Scrabbling backward, he tried to get away, but the figure followed, stepping out into the harsh, artificial light.

It was her. The girl. Shadoe. She sneered down at him with contempt in her eyes, twisting the leather tightly in her fist and giving it a vicious yank, snapping his head forward. Grabbing hold, he tried to jerk it away from her but found to his terror that he could not. He could feel the weakness in his muscles; stranger still, he could feel strength in hers. Had she been faking all along? Had she, with her Slayer blood, betrayed him?

Once again he bared his teeth in a blood-curdling snarl, and once again no sound came forth. Shadoe smirked at him, shaking her head in a pitying manner before she gave the leash a brutal yank, twisting the collar tight around his neck and cutting off his air. As he lay gasping on the ground for air that suddenly seemed so necessary to his life, she turned her back on him and began hauling him towards the door by the neck, dragging him along the floor as he choked and writhed, his mind screaming at him to get up and get away. She was taking him back into surgery, he knew it; back under those horrible lights, strapped down to a table and doped so that he couldn't fight, where the blonde science-bitch would lean over him with a cold smile in her eyes and knives would flash, slicing, cutting, a bloody living autopsy…

Spike jerked awake with a ragged gasp of terror, his chest tight, lungs screaming for the illusion of oxygen. The factory ceiling stared down at him, its dilapidated steel supports a strangely sweet comfort. Just a nightmare. His muscles relaxed, his body easing back down onto the mattress. He was safe. And… in a rather compromising position it would seem.

Still flat on his back, the girl who had begun to drag him away so mercilessly in his nightmares now slept peacefully, the sleep of someone who had finally found a safe place to rest their head after weeks of living in fear. Unfortunately that place was atop his chest. Curled snugly against him, she rested one hand lightly on his hipbone, her long, warm body held tight to his side by the arm he had unconsciously looped around her shoulders. Spike twitched away, disgusted that he had reached out to her, a human, while she had so plagued his mind.

Grimacing, he rolled away, and while the girl stirred at being displaced, turning to her stomach while her legs tangled in his duster, she did not wake. Just as well. He didn't really want to see her right now, let alone talk to her. He knew what he had dreamt wasn't real, that it was just his mind, the starvation, the drugs, but it didn't make it feel any less true. Wrapping an arm lightly around his aching torso, he crossed the room and silently climbed the stairs, leaping lightly over the hole and emerging onto the first floor.

The place looked even more dismal on second inspection. Debris, dirt, broken glass; they were lucky the place hadn't come down on them in the night. Day rather; judging by the light streaming through the cracks in the boarded up windows it was late afternoon, sunset only a few hours away. Here and there were scattered remnants of his previous stays; an empty booze bottle balanced on a sill, the bent remains of the steel cage that so long ago held the ashes of an anointed child, a do…

Shit.

A Victorian doll wrapped in a blindfold made of black lace. Stepping over, he sank to his knees before the thing, reaching out with hesitant hands. The porcelain was cool to the touch, its dress left in tatters by the small teeth that would carry the fabric off to line a nest, but that black lace blindfold was untouched. Cradling the doll in his palms, he brushed his thumbs over its covered eyes, swallowed in the memory of the last few, horrible years.

Lord he missed her. Well, maybe not her. Maybe he could admit that now. But he missed the idea of her. Perhaps not even that. God he was just so confused. All he had ever wanted when he was alive to be loved back, and it was almost all he had ever wanted when he was dead. He had given her his whole heart, everything that he was, and had devoted over a hundred years to her in the useless hope that someday she would give something back. He wanted to belong to someone, to be their world, and all he had gotten from her was heartache.

That wasn't fair. She had given him this new life, the one he enjoyed so much. She had given him the power, the strength, the will to be the man he never imagined he could be. She had given him small, semi-lucid moments throughout the years in which she might have cared for him as much as she was able. It was the others, the cheating, the snide remarks and the betrayal, that cut. It was watching her in Angelus' arms every time that killed him.

He _had_ loved her. Part of him still did. But part of him had always known she didn't love him back. Not in any real way. It certainly wasn't her fault, but that didn't make it hurt any less. And losing her, there at the end, after everything…

A touch on his shoulder made him jump. Shadoe stood at his side, wrapped in his jacket, a question on her face. He had been so deep in his reverie that he hadn't heard her stirring in the basement, hadn't heard her climb up the broken stairs or cross the room towards him. Spike stood and tossed the doll to the side, shrugging away the memories, the hurt, the question she silently asked. That part of his life was over. His time spent underground, caged like an animal, had driven that home.

"Sun's almost down," he remarked. "What do you say we find you a shower and some clean clothes and then get you somethin' to eat? You hungry pet?"

"Don't know," she shrugged.

"Don't remember what full feels like?"

She nodded.

"Me either luv," Spike sighed. Reaching out, he took her hand. "Let's go."


	19. Chapter 19

It was an old trick that he saved for desperate times, but it was a clever one if he did say so himself. A quick detour to the local news office provided him with a list of recent missing persons cases, which, with a little work, turned into a list of houses which no longer had living occupants. Let it be said that there _were_ benefits to living on a Hellmouth. Murder and disappearance ran abound, leaving plenty of options for the invitationally challenged. Choosing an address on the less-affluent side of town from which a young couple had been missing for a week or so, he relocked the office door behind him and stepped out into the night.

Shadoe waited patiently in the dark, stationed against the wall near the door. He'd like to think she was smart enough to have been keeping watch while she was there, but he didn't assume anything. She wasn't the new Slayer; that had been made clear when Buffy had crashed their little party at the dorms last night, and his little nightmare from the night before still had him shaken enough to be on his guard. So until he figured out what the hell was up with her, he wasn't going to take anything for granted.

As the two of them walked along in silence, he had to doubt that she had anything to do with his captivity and subsequent torture. He had seen people do the undercover thing before, but this was far and above anything he could have ever imagined. There was only so much starvation and torture the human mind could reconcile with the good of a mission. It was unlikely that she had put herself through this much to trick him. And he couldn't really think of what was to be gained if she had. Doing his best to shake off the weirdness hanging over him, he double checked the number of the house he'd been casing and slipped around the side to the back door, Shadoe on his heels.

Spike paused at the door, listening carefully. No sound emanated from inside the house; no movement, no chatter, no heartbeats. It was empty. Searching his pockets for his lock pick, he cursed the Initiative for relieving him of his personal effects, though he supposed he should count himself lucky that they hadn't just confiscated the whole coat. Growling softly under his breath, he looked around, gauging the distance between the houses. Farther apart than your typical cul de sac, he noted that there were also tall privacy fences and rows of trees between them. In addition, he had discovered that it was almost Thanksgiving, and plenty of Sunnydale-ites would be jetting off to parts unknown for the holidays, hopefully these particular neighbors included. It was good enough for him.

Applying controlled pressure to a pane of glass set into the door with one leather-clad elbow, he waited until he heard it crack and then carefully tapped the shards out. The glass still tinkled as it shattered, but the sound was muted enough that he wasn't too concerned. Sticking his arm through the hole, he reached down and unlocked the door, swinging it open and stepping slowly inside. No barrier blocked his way, confirming his suspicion that the house's occupants were no longer roaming this plane. Turning, he looked back at Shadoe and beckoned her inside.

She hesitated at the threshold, frowning. She was sure that there was something wrong about this, but wasn't quite sure what. Her brain felt a bit fuzzy, her head heavy with fatigue though she had slept peacefully enough curled into the arms of her Hostile. She wanted to follow him, but something held her back, some sense of rightness that hummed in her and warned her to think twice.

"They're gone luv," Spike murmured, sensing her distress. "We're not hurting anyone."

His words quelled enough of her fear to let her step inside.

Shutting the door quietly behind her, Spike led them down a short hallway, sticking his head into rooms, looking around in the dark. Finding what appeared to be the master bedroom, he stepped up to the bedside and flicked on a lamp, pleased when the room was bathed in pale light. The electricity was still on then. Opening a sliding door, he found a closet full of women's scrubs; apparently the wife had been a nurse. They were about two sizes too big for Shadoe, and he doubted that she wanted to exchange one pair of the strange, papery clothes for another, but at least they were clean. Hers were torn and dirty, covered in small rips and tears, stained with her blood. Spike's own weren't much better. Rummaging through a dresser, he found a stack of men's tshirts that would normally be far too small for him, but would now be just about right. The blue jeans simply weren't going to work, so he would have to suffer with his own for now.

Grabbing two pairs of socks, he switched off the light and crossed the hall, seeking out the bathroom. The first door he tried was a linen closet, so he grabbed a set of fluffy towels before carrying his armful of clothes to the next. Jackpot. The room was large and clean enough, the lights burning brightly over the sink. A shower stall occupied one corner, and Spike reached inside, cranking the water on as hot as it would go.

"Ladies first pet," he said stepping back.

When she didn't move, he urged her gently forward, confused when she immediately resisted, pushing back against him and shaking her head violently. Her body began to tremble and her big dark eyes went blank, her breath beginning to shudder in her chest.

"No," she muttered. "No, no, no, no, no!"

"What the soddin'… oh bollocks." Of course. Spike was stunned by his stupidity. There he stood, trying to physically force her into a small, white tiled box with a clear glass door that looked like nothing so much as a cell. He could be quite the bloody prat when he set his mind to it.

"Easy," he murmured, turning her around to face him and putting the shower stall at her back. "Shadoe. Take it easy." Taking her chin in his hand, he raised her face to his, looking her in the eye. "Just a shower pet. You're not going back there. I promised, remember? It's just a shower. Just need to get you cleaned up yeah? Won't that be good? Wash out your hair, get you into some clean clothes?"

"No," she muttered, clutching his forearms in a grip that he felt to his bones. "No, no, don't leave me. Don't leave me in there. Don't…"

Spike sighed. Balls. This was not what he needed right now. As bad as he felt about how messed up in the head she was, he was getting sick of the panic attacks. Part of him knew that it was the hunger making him irritable, being so close to the blood that pumped under her skin, but he couldn't help it. He had bloody well earned the right to be a bit pissy. Guiding her over to sit on the lid of the toilet, he left her hugging herself around the middle and returned to the bedroom he'd just left. Diving back into the dresser, he came up with a pair of athletic shorts that would hopefully fit.

Taking the opportunity to change in private, he skivved out of his coat and his jeans, toeing off his boots and easing his button-up off his shoulders. Bruises spread black and blue and heavy across his torso, like spilled ink, the cuts to his abdomen and over his chest just beginning to close though the damage underneath still felt just as fresh. Perfectly comfortable in his own skin, Spike had little modesty left after one hundred years, but this was going to strange enough for both of them and he had no idea how Shadoe would react, so he squirmed into the too-tight shorts before heading back to the bathroom.

She was sitting in the same position he had left her in, though she raised her head to look at him with haunted eyes when he entered. Her eyes traveled over his naked torso, and when he stepped to her side to pull her to her feet, she reached out a hand and traced her fingertips over the edge of a bruise, her touch feather-light. Spike's breath caught in his throat as his skin flickered and quivered under her hand like a colt's. It had been so long since he had been touched by a hand that didn't intend him pain that he wasn't quite sure how to react to it. So he didn't.

Taking her hand, he lifted her up and then backed away, stepping into the shower with arm extended, beckoning her in after him.

"Come on pet," he said softly. "Gonna be all right. I promise."

With shaking hands, she fumbled at the ragged hem of her top, starting to pull it off once, twice, again, and he was sure that this wasn't going to work. Stuck in place, she stared right through him, having eyes only for white walls that boxed him in, until she squeezed them tightly shut, let out a soft breath, and jerked the shirt over her head.

It was strange. Like an out of body experience. She was a pretty girl, nicely curved even when she was half starved, dirty, and smudged with dried blood, but he didn't feel anything as she stripped. He only watched with a clinical eye, noting the shadows cast by her ribs, the way her skin appeared thin over her hip bones. Covering herself with one arm, she reached out a trembling hand and let him guide her into the shower.

He had to tug a bit to get her over the lip of the stall, pushing gently until she was standing beneath the spray. It was a tight fit with two of them, and Spike could feel the heat of her skin on his even more than that of the water. She had her back to him, but he could see her shoulders heaving with the effort to control her breathing. He hesitated to touch her, but reached out anyway, running his hands lightly up and down her arms.

"Easy luv," he murmured. " 'S all right. Only a shower. 'M right here yeah?"

She nodded, and he could see her muscles gradually relax under the warm spray. Reaching around her, he grabbed some sort of strange, girly sponge from a shelf and soaped it up. With tentative hands, he began to gently scrub her shoulders and the back of her neck, working quickly but thoroughly. She didn't move, only stood stock-still, her face tilted up towards the water. Turning her around, he moved swiftly to complete her front, crouching down to soap her feet. She jerked when he scrubbed at her soles and the backs of her knees, and he smiled as he was reminded of her ticklishness. She seemed to be aware enough to rinse the suds off her skin, watching intently as the grimy water was sloughed down the drain.

Standing back up, he dropped the sponge traded it for a bottle of cranberry scented shampoo, squeezing a large dollop of the red tinted gel into his palm.

"Turn around pet, tip your head back."

She complied without hesitation, unaware of how her neck stretched out, slim and perfect before him, when she did. Pulling her wet hair over her shoulders, Spike began to lather it up, bubbles frothing in his hands, but his eyes were captivated by that smooth expanse of flesh. Only inches away, he fought a vicious urge to run his tongue from the curve of her shoulder to her ear, to taste her, to feel her blood pounding under his lips. So intense was his internal battle that he didn't notice her easing back, leaning against his chest as he gently scrubbed at her scalp with his fingernails. It was the humming that caught his attention, that broke the hold her fluttering pulse point had on him. Blinking in surprise, he found her pressed full against him, her head lolling on his shoulder as she purred contentedly with eyes closed.

"Let's get you rinsed off before the water goes," he said in a rough voice, placing her firmly away from him.

Turning around, she stepped back under the spray again and lifted her arms to rinse out her hair, treating him to an unexpected view. Rather nice one too, if the state of his shorts were any judge. They had been tight to start with, now they were bordering on painful. Spike turned away from the sight of her swaying breasts, cursing himself for a lecher. Christ, she'd just been held in soddin' lockdown, tortured and brainwashed for God knows how long, and here he was staring at her like a bloody teenager. He tried to blame it on the hunger, on his demon being so close to her blood, wanting it so badly, but he couldn't banish the feeling of her body pressed against his as the water cascaded down.

Cutting off a low, throaty growl before it could pass his lips, he pushed open the shower door and stepped to the side. "Out you get pet," he said, passing the girl out of the stall. "Grab a towel, get dressed."

Not waiting to see if she would follow his orders, he pulled the door shut again and quickly shucked the wet shorts. Looking down, he cursed his traitorous body before grabbing the loofa and roughly scrubbing the dirt and grime of the last few weeks off his skin. Unfortunately he couldn't scrub away the feeling of hers. Dropping his forehead to the wall with a hollow _thunk_, he stood beneath the spray until the water ran cold.


	20. Chapter 20

Shadoe was gone when he finally climbed out. Wrapping a towel around his hips, he left the shorts and her dirty, bloody clothes in a soggy pile on the floor of the shower stall. Her clean clothes were gone, so he could assume that she had had the faculties to dress herself. Standing before the empty mirror, he swished a capful of the mouthwash that sat on the back of the sink, reveling in the antiseptic sting. God, he'd missed having a toothbrush. A small sound tickled at the edge of his hearing; spitting out his mouthful of blue froth, he cocked his head and listened. Shadoe. She was sitting on the other side of the door, waiting for him in the darkened hallway.

Grimacing, he tugged his old jeans back up his hips, zipping his belt through to the last hole. Compared to the dirty denim, the clean socks and t-shirt were nirvana on his skin. He wasn't lucky enough to find any gel, so he just scraped his hair back with his fingers, knowing that by the time it dried it would be hanging in his eyes and curling all over the place. Finding a razor in the medicine cabinet, he shaved off his stubble with a practiced hand, his lack of reflection no longer a hindrance after one hundred years. Most people were surprised to find out that vampires still had to shave, which didn't make sense to Spike. His hair still grew, why wouldn't his beard? Maybe a little slower than it used to, but still…

Putting down the razor, he shook his head. Mind was wandering again. Time to eat then, feed up the fatted calf so to speak. Tossing his towel into the shower with the rest of the wet linens, he tipped off the light and stepped out into the hallway. Slipping into gameface, he glanced about in the dark and found her hugging her knees at the bottom of the wall.

"Hungry luv?" he asked for the second time that night.

Like last time, she didn't give him a definitive answer, only shrugged and climbed to her feet. Deciding to press his luck and stick around a bit longer, he led her down the hallway towards the kitchen. Drawing the curtains tight over the windows, Spike lit a few half-melted candles that sat on the center of the island and began poking about in the walk-in pantry. She needed sugar and iron and vitamins, more pressingly carbs. A box of spaghetti noodles and a jar of tomato sauce would do for now, just to get something into her and provide her with some energy. Pulling down a pot from a cupboard, he set water to boiling and turned to the refrigerator.

Shadoe sat on a barstool on the other side of the island, watching him in silence as he ducked inside. From the sour smell floating around, he guessed that most everything had gone bad in the week or so that the houses owners' had been missing, and clearly no one had bothered to drop by and toss out the milk. Digging into the bottom crisper drawer, he pulled out a pair of oranges that were still good and turned to find a paring knife. Dropping onto a stool of his own, he peeled the fruit, handing sections one by one across the counter into hesitant hands.

She looked intently at the pieces of citrus, sniffing at their strong scent, licking some of the juice from her fingers. Slowly, she took a bite of the sweet fruit, her eyes lighting up when it burst on her tongue. Looking up at him, she smiled happily, the first real smile he had ever seen her give. She was breath taking. The innocent joy she took in something so simple shone in her dark eyes, and for just a moment, chased the shadows away. He had helped to put that smile on her face, and it made him smile back.

The intensity of the emotions that attacked him then was almost painful. There was protectiveness there for this girl that had nothing to do with her being his exclusive food source. There was pride, for himself and for her, that they had both made it out of that place, had survived and were still capable of smiling. There was contentment, a pleasant sort of calm that came with sitting quietly across from her in the dim light and sharing an orange. But there was fear too. Stuffing a section of the fruit into his mouth, he pushed the rest across to her and spun out of his seat, showing her his back as he checked on the pot of noodles that bubbled away on the burner.

Soon enough, he had a heaping plate of the stuff steaming in front of her and a fork pushed into her hand. While the orange had been like sweet heaven on his tongue and had yet to cause him a vicious bout of nausea like the soldier blood had done the other night, he wasn't quite ready to chance human food yet, and would have to suffer the fragrant scent of tomatoes and garlic and basil unsatisfied, his stomach snarling away in the silent kitchen. Shadoe looked between the plate and his face with trepidation, leaning from left to right as though trying to decide which side of the dish to attack from.

"Won't bite you luv," he promised. "Know it's not my best effort, but it might surprise. Should taste pretty good after those shite energy blocks they was feedin' you down there."

Shadoe hesitantly twirled her fork through the noodles, frowning when she lifted the utensil and saw that she'd only really managed to catch one between the tines. Looking at him again as though for reassurance, she stuck it into her mouth and awkwardly slurped it up. Spike could have laughed at the sight, the sauce that smudged on her chin, if it weren't for the strange sense of melancholy that hung over the table. She didn't remember spaghetti? What other things had she forgotten, what things had she experienced that were now lost to her? She was a mess, that was for sure; not a blank slate – more like one that had been hastily wiped clean, leaving behind a cloudy layer of dust that smoked over her reality.

Apparently spaghetti was one of the things that she had liked in her previous life, or at least liked now; she had begun to happily shovel heaping forkfuls into her mouth.

"Easy pet," Spike warned. "Take it slow. Don't want it all coming back up on you yeah?"

She immediately stopped, looking chastised. Deciding the best course of action was to just ignore her, he turned away and began poking around the cupboards. Behind him, the clink of silverware assured him that she'd gone back to task, allowing him to focus on his. Pushing aside pots and pans, he stood on his tiptoes and looked way into the back of the top shelf, breaking into a wide grin. Humans really were terribly predictable.

Grabbing the cow-shaped cookie jar, he pulled it down and, with the air of a magic trick, removed the lid. Jackpot. No chocolate chips in here, no no, something much more useful. Cash. Pulling out the crumpled bills, he ran a quick count and cheerily pocketed almost three hundred dollars. A yellowed note in the bottom of the jar declared the stash a second honeymoon fund, one which certainly wasn't needed any longer. Too bad the poor bastards hadn't smoked… course with a nurse for a wife it wasn't too surprising.

"Got us some dosh pet," he said turning back to be met with an empty plate and a satisfied girl sucking sauce from her fingers. "Find a safe place to bed down for a bit till I can deal with the little tin soldiers." The way her eyes widened made his lips twist into a frown. Then he sighed. "Maybe we should just leave," he said, more to himself than to her. "Get out of Sunnyhell once and for all. Go to Paris, or Rome, or London… be good to get back to the mother country for a bit. What do you say pet; fancy a bit of travel?"

She didn't respond. Leaning back on her stool, her body sagged and swayed a bit as her eyes drooped. "Or a bit of kip?" he chuckled. Sure, they'd both had a nice long sleep, but he was willing to bet that it hadn't been enough, even without the food coma that was setting in.

"C'mon luv. No one's come bangin' on the door yet, s'pose we can stick around a bit longer."

He didn't carry her, didn't take her hand and lead her, though it had been his first inclination. He rationalized the impulse as being left over from all those years with Dru, a habit that was easy enough to slip back into and should be just as easy to break. So instead he just lead her back down the hallway, pausing to have her try on a pair of flat-soled, white sneakers that lay near the door. Like the scrubs, they were too big, but they would do until he could get her another set.

They continued on to the master bedroom, Spike contemplating whether he should continue ransacking the house or not. Surely there were a few things here they could use, that they would have just in case they needed them in the brief future that waited before he could hit up a store. At the same time, it would all be things that he would have to carry, and he was weary. Bone tired as a matter of fact, and his limbs felt like lead if he stopped to think about it too long. Oh well. Give it one more night, and he would have himself a little snack. Not a lot, just enough to start building himself back up. No more bloody feasts for Spike, no, it would be careful rationing and a strict diet from now on.

Holding down a grumble, he opened the door to the bedroom and ushered Shadoe in before him. She moved quietly towards the large four-poster bed that dominated the small space, looking at it as though she didn't recognize the thing. For all he knew, she didn't; the thing they'd slept on last night was a far cry from this pillow-laden paradise. Spike's body whimpered at the thought of being cushioned in such softness for the night, snarled when he firmly reminded himself that he would be napping on the couch. Didn't want any awkward repetitions of last night's wake up, did he. Unsure of what to do to get her into the bed and unwilling to tuck her in, he ran a hand roughly through his hair.

"Get some rest," he said gruffly. "Be on the couch if you need me yeah? Keep a lookout. We'll head off, soon's you're up." He moved to turn away, but a small sound stopped him. "Say again, girl," he practically barked, suddenly, once again, pissed as hell with the cards fate had dealt him.

"Can you stay?"

The words killed his anger. Brought up a swirl of other things he didn't know, or at least didn't want to look too closely at, but he wasn't mad. Choosing not to answer her for fear of what his acerbic tongue might say, he toed off his boots and moved around her to the bed, climbing in and sliding as far over to one edge as he could without falling off. He would stay, but that was all. Folding his arms under his head, he closed his eyes and held himself rigid on the side of the bed, listening intently. For the longest time she didn't move, but he could feel her eyes on him in the dark and it set his jaw so tight that his teeth ached. Finally, he felt the mattress dip as she climbed in at last. He almost sighed with relief. It was short lived.

Everything in him tensed as she rolled closer, screamed for him to move away when she snuggled into his side and rested her hand on his near hip, one knee drawn up to lap gently over his. Instantly her breathing slowed and she fell still, half asleep within moments of curling next to him. It seemed that she had found her place. He wasn't so sure. But sleep began to drag at the vampire, and he couldn't hold it off forever. Giving up the fight, he let his body sink into the mattress and as darkness finally took him two small words muttered in half breaths reached his ears.

"Thank you."


	21. Chapter 21

Spike slept like the dead that night; unplagued by mind-twisting nightmares. It was perhaps mid-morning when he finally woke, and for just a few seconds, he wasn't sure what had roused him from such deep slumber. He had turned unconsciously in sleep, curling in towards the girl who slept at his side, his arm once again looped about her shoulders, their legs tangled together on top of the blankets. He froze, his body going rigid until he forced himself to relax, to allow itself to experience the simple nearness of another body. For him, there was something distinctly intimate about sleeping next to someone; more than sex, more than blood… the trust that permitted a person to be their most vulnerable so close to another.

He found his cheek was pressed against the top of Shadoe's head, her dark hair tickling his skin as he took a deep breath to center himself. With the hospital stench of the Initiative labs, the sweat and dirt and blood all washed away, her natural scent filled up his head and made his mouth water. She smelled like winter; cold and ice and clean white snow, juniper and pine, the light traces of cranberry lingering in her hair reminding him of long ago Christmases.

Suddenly, the slamming of a car door had him fully awake, aware that it was the same sound that had initially woken him up. Voices in the driveway just outside the window alerted him to the presence of at least three people, one of which sounded like a cop. Rolling quickly from the bed, he reached out a hand and twitched the blinds open, a flash of sunlight stinging his fingertips before he dropped them shut. There were red and blue lights in the drive.

"Shit!" he muttered, crossing back to the bed. "Get up!" he hissed, shaking the girl's shoulder roughly. "Come on luv, gotta go. We've outstayed our welcome."

Shadoe jumped immediately to her feet, knuckling her eyes and blinking rapidly. Whipping the green quilt from the bed, Spike flung it about his shoulders, hooding it over his head and darting quietly towards the back door. He could hear the cop approaching the front, and Spike prayed that the git didn't have a canine with him ready to charge into the house. He didn't fancy slowing down to tear out the throat of some bite-happy Shepherd. Easing the door open, he took a moment to scan the backyard and then bolted, crossing the lawn and aiming for the next street where there would be a manhole waiting for him.

Two minutes more found him safe in the darkness of the sewers, looking up at the white glow of the open manhole. Shadoe looked back down at him, fear written all over her face, but they didn't have time for her to hesitate. If the cop cleared the house and found the broken window pane at the back, all he would have to do was look up and he would catch her, still in full sight of the house.

"Gotta jump pet," Spike said desperately. "_Now_!"

To his relief, she took one last look back at the house and swung easily down into the tunnel, dangling from the edge for a minute until Spike stepped forward, reaching up to take her by the hips and drop her down the last few feet. Her borrowed canvas shoes splashed noisily into the thin stream of dirty water that trickled along the bricks and she frowned, her nose crinkling at the smell that hung in the hot, heavy air.

"Don't think about it," Spike advised, looking left and right down both ends of the tunnel. "Not the best of highways, but it'll get us where we're goin.' Plus it's got the benefit of bein' all not-sunny-like."

"Where _are_ we going?"

Spike turned to look at Shadoe in surprise, a smile touching his lips.

"What?" she asked quietly, her cheeks going pink.

"Nothing luv," Spike grinned. It was just that it was the first time she'd talked to him, really offered something, not just responded. And that was a good sign right? "Think we'll head across town; there's another abandoned place like this one east of us. You can bunk down there for the night while I make a few calls. Couple of days, I should have us a place a bit more permanent-like." He paused, looking at her again though she was busy staring off down the tunnel in the direction he had indicated. "Unless you want to leave?" he asked uncertainly.

Turning to him, her eyebrows came down in a look like calculation, confusion and concern warring in her. What was she thinking?

"Should we go?" she asked softly, her eyes begging him for honesty. "_They_…"

"I'll take care of the soldiers luv, whether I gotta set the whole of the Hellmouth on 'em or do it all myself." Reaching out, he placed reassuring hands on her shoulders. "You don't have to worry about them, all right? Won't let them hurt you again. I promise."

He'd done it again. That was twice now. What was wrong with him, what was he thinking?! Dropping his hands, he turned off down the tunnel, letting his demon eyes show him the way in the darkness. Sure he was planning to do it anyway. Wasn't quite sure _how_,but if he had to he _could _rally the demons in the area, bring them under the control of a Master Vampire and set them on the warpath. Probably be more than happy to do it too, what with the whole kidnapping and experimentation M.O. they had going.

The issue of travel had once again gone undecided, but Spike didn't particularly care all that much. He was going to have his fun with the little tin soldiers, whether they stayed in Sunnyhell or tailed it. What he needed to do was sit down and come up with a plan, a good plan that plotted out just what the future would be. His mind was a bit hazy with the bloodlust that was becoming more and more of a problem as time went on, and all he could focus on was that he was carting a very fragile, very important package around damp, disease-ridden sewers. If he couldn't find a way to break the chemically induced dependence this girl had over him, he was of a mind to lock her away in a padded room that only he had the key to.

Suddenly, fingers came forward to tangle with his, gripping his hand tightly in the dark. He might've pulled away, but he knew that she couldn't see down here. She'd been following him blindly, by sound and instinct alone until it had been too much for her. She might be talking, might be getting a bit bolder, but she wasn't half of what she could be one day. Slayers were some of the most deadly gorgeous creatures that walked this earth, and if anyone knew the seductive beauty of their power it was Spike. The thought that she could get there, that he could help to build her back up into what she was meant to be, kept him from pulling away, in point of fact had his thumb sweeping over the back of her hand. The truth that she wasn't the Slayer, or at least wasn't the only one, didn't matter.

Sloshing through the sewers, Spike kept a firm yet gentle hold on her, pausing at frequent intervals to get his bearings and determine just where they were at. Navigating the dark tunnels was harder than one would think, especially when he wasn't at his best, but he managed to get them to the other side of the city without running into any other creepy crawlies. Breaking and entering was a bit trickier in the daylight, and not only because he was flammable. Luckily for him, this second house was on the edge of town in a much more rural area, bordered by a wooded bluff that would hopefully serve as adequate cover. There was a water treatment facility and a power plant up there too, so finding an exit to suit their needs wasn't quite the deadly game of whack-a-mole that it could've been.

Drawing his stolen quilt tightly about his head and shoulders, Spike took a step behind Shadoe and ducked down low, scooping her up so that she was sitting on his shoulder when he rose again. She had yelped a bit at the sudden strange shift in position, grasping tightly at his hair to keep her balance.

"Easy on!" Spike barked, using one hand to steady her and the other to untangle her fingers from his curls. Stepping to the side, he gestured at the manhole cover above their heads. "Let's have a look yeah?"

She pulled a face at him from her perch, unsure.

"Don't look at me like that," he admonished. "What are you afraid of? It's not like _you'll_ burst into flame." He shrugged, shifting her a bit higher. "Just pop up, have a bit of a look-see, get the all clear."

"Ok."

"Tha's a girl!"

She was hesitant at first, reluctant to relinquish her grip on his hair and jacket, but once she found the center of her balance, she reached up with steady hands, pushing half-heartedly at the lid of the manhole. The thick, heavy disk of metal didn't budge. Frowning, she tried again, pushing back the sleeves of her too-big scrubs and shoving, but still the cap didn't move.

"Come on Shadoe," Spike urged, squeezing an ankle where he held her steady. He could have easily opened it himself, even in his weakened state, but it wasn't about that. "You're stronger than that. Give it all you got."

Baring gritted teeth, Shadoe let out a snarly little grumble that Spike found strangely attractive, shoving up against the metal cover with everything she had. Unfortunately, she used his hip for leverage, pushing off with her borrowed tennis shoe and nearly giving him a heart attack, which was certainly saying something given his undead condition. But she was a little bit close to prized goods for his liking. The grating sound of metal on pavement was their reward, and her body was sufficiently blocking the sunlight to keep him from self-immolating. Fingers on the edge, she pulled herself up a bit off his shoulder as he carefully redirected her feet, peeking out tentatively from the tunnel.

"What do you see luv?" Spike asked. "Coast clear?"

Scanning the area, she looked back down into the sewer and nodded. "Looks clear," she said.

"All right then," Spike replied, grabbing onto her knees. "Up you go."

Pushing up, he held on until she pulled herself out of the tunnel, kneeling at the side of the hole and waiting for him to follow. With a deep breath, he resettled his blanket and leapt upwards, pulling himself through as quickly as he could. Topside once more, he tucked lightly singed fingertips beneath his arms, ducking low and running for the cover of the tree line. The scrub was thick enough that the shade was heavy and cool, giving him the illusion of protection, the illusion of calm for a moment.

"Ok," he muttered. "Ok, should be the third one… there!" He pointed to a small, low-slung gray house, one in a rough line of similar houses dotting the high road that led up the bluff. They were fairly well distanced from each other, and he only hoped they were far enough apart that the neighbors didn't have a great view through the trees. No, his eyes were focused on a bigger problem. The door itself. Looked like solid wood, that one. He'd have to pick the lock, and he didn't have anything on hand to do it with. But maybe… yes!

"Come on," he said quietly, and broke out into a run, tearing down the hill and skidding to a stop on the small, flat porch at the back of the house. She matched him step for step, her breathing heavy but silent as she landed behind him, darting anxious looks left and right.

There was a metal planter perched on the edge of the porch, and it was easy enough to knock out the pot, tipping soil onto the patio and snapping off two thin pieces of wire. Crude yes, but a bend here and a twist there and they might just do the job. With deft fingers, Spike put a few crimps into the wires and knelt down before the lock, easing his make-shift picks around the tumblers and listening for the tell-tale click.

* * *

Shadoe rocked anxiously on the balls of her feet, biting down hard on her tongue to keep from babbling, from telling him to hurry. Every time she spoke to him he got the strangest look on his face, and it made her wonder if she should just stay quiet. She could hear him muttering under his breath and cursing viciously, trying to threaten the lock into compliance. Every second that went by pounded in her fingertips, ratcheting up her flight response until she was panting and ready to bolt. Panicked and shaking, she didn't see the soldiers slipping silently down from the top of the bluff.

They moved like ghosts through the trees, keeping low with guns drawn. They had their orders; return Experimental Pair 17 to the laboratory without fail or face military reprimand. Their commander wanted them both, but the Hostile was Priority One. It was his back they sighted on. It was the Feeder that saved him.

She wouldn't have seen them but for the sun. The briefest glare of white light off of gunmetal, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Some instinct, _something_ told her to move, to take just two steps to the side and turn, and it felt like a dream. Like floating over the boards of the porch and hearing the gunshot through a tunnel, cracking off the wall of the bluff and echoing away. She felt the sharp pain above her hip, the hot sear of something burying itself deep in her abdomen and the gush of blood, but she didn't really feel it. She heard Spike shout, snarl out a violent, fearful '_no_!' but she didn't really hear him. She knew she was falling, and that his arms were coming around to catch her, but she didn't really know it. And then everything was black.


	22. Chapter 22

"Spike. Spike. Hurts."

He barely caught the hoarse whisper as the girl in his arms whimpered in pain. He was doing his best not to jostle her, but it was a difficult thing to do while sprinting full out through the sewers, dodging left and right down a dozen different tunnels in an effort to shake the soldiers tailing them.

"Hang on luv," he choked, doing his best not to breathe in the scent of the hot, red blood staining the front of her shirt. "Just… hang on."

Spike didn't remember getting them back underground. He _did _remembered the crack of a gunshot echoing off the houses and the edge of the cliff, remembered shouting as he spun, Shadoe falling backwards into his arms and the coppery smell of her exploding in his brain, but it was all disjointed, staccato images overlaid with vicious dread. He could see the soldiers coming down the bluff through the trees and had moved without thought, throwing the gasping girl over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and racing to beat them back to the tunnel entrance.

He had come back to himself several minutes later, deep inside the catacombs with his demon bucking and twisting viciously, driving him relentlessly down to his knees. He had tried, sealed his mouth over the entry wound and _tried_ to suck the bullet out, but it had been lodged too deeply in her abdomen, the blood coming thin and heavy on his tongue. And God it had been nirvana, sweet life pouring into him and making his demon purr, his teeth prickling nastily at his gums. It was everything, the very center point of his abruptly concentrated world, everything narrowed in on that hot splash of red. He saw nothing else, heard nothing else, could only taste the thick copper coating the inside of his mouth and feel the heat running down his throat and burning his tender stomach.

It took everything he had, every ounce of control to pull away, to do his best to stem the scarlet flow. It hurt, hurt viciously to stop, and he had to curl over his knees with his forehead pressed against the cool stone floor while his chest heaved, trying to catch his breath as he trembled. Gritting his teeth, he jerked himself upright and forced himself to move, to tear the sleeves from the too-big scrub top and fold them into a thick pad, which he now pressed tightly against the gunshot wound above her hip as he lifted her into his arms. With the sound of footsteps beginning to echo off the paving stones not far behind him, he could feel panic rise in his throat.

Choosing to abandon the safety of the tunnels, he pressed up through an opening that he knew led into an old, vacant crypt. It was a tight squeeze to get them both through the broken stone of the floor, but they made it, emerging into the dim vault where he placed Shadoe's limp body gently onto the floor. Working quickly, he did what he could to block up the entrance, filling the hole with chunks of stone and using all of his weight to push an old coffin against the edges. Their trail temporarily barred, he fell to his knees at Shadoe's side.

He had never felt so frenzied, so terrified as he did now, watching his life source dripping out all over the dusty floor. Not in Prague, not scant months ago when he'd been trapped in a wheelchair with Angelus breathing down the back of his neck. No. He needed to get her help. Now. But he couldn't take her to a hospital… he had identification for those rare occasions when he needed it, but she didn't have a single piece, _nothing_ that would verify who she was. He'd never be able to explain this - a young girl with a gunshot wound and not a shred of proof that she existed at all, let alone was a US citizen. So what choice did he have?

Sliding his arms beneath her, he hitched her up against his chest and snugged his quilt around his head and shoulders, kicking out the door of the crypt and making a break for the trees at the edge of the cemetery. High bloody noon and precious, wasted blood all down the front of his leather jacket; he didn't hesitate, ducking his face to shield it from the sun and making tracks for the other side of town, to an apartment that just might hold their salvation. The Slayer would stake him soon as look at him, but he just might be able to get the jump on the Watcher.

* * *

"Shit, shit, shit," Spike muttered viciously under his breath. Jostling Shadoe's unconscious body, he tried to draw his quilt more tightly about them without dropping her. He could feel the sun burning at the edges of his face, his fingers and the backs of his hands, blisters rising on his skin. He'd decided not to risk going back down into the sewers; the cold, the damp, the threat of infection… it was too much. She had already gone into shock, her body shaking and her eyes rolling up in her head before the pain finally took her. So he took his own chances, braving the sun and hauling ass across Sunnydale for the Watcher's flat. He needed help and he was ready to beg for it.

Darting from shadow to shadow, he ducked beneath trees and behind houses until he finally made it to the little garden patio in front of the apartment. Stepping in close to the building, into the few inches of dim safety near the wall, he booted the bottom of the door hard. Seconds passed, each one matching a steadily declining heartbeat, each one an eternity as blood continued to pool beneath his hand.

He wasn't ready when the door was thrown open, wasn't ready to face the blonde spitfire who blocked the threshold. He'd only thought that maybe he could jar the watcher long enough to listen, or if that didn't work, threaten his girl a bit, blackmail him into giving the invite. But Buffy was something different. Her shock lasted for all of a second, her eyes wide and her mouth open before she did what she did best; falling into a fighting stance as her hand went to the frame of the door, ready to rip out a chunk of wood big enough to stave through his chest.

The world collapsed in on itself for Spike, sending his senses soaring. He could feel the sun searing the backs of his hands and blinding his demon eyes, could feel Shadoe's body pressed against him, her steadily declining heartbeat pounding in his ears. His mouth suddenly went dry, his fangs cutting in and out of his gums as his muscles went soft, his knees buckling, and in that moment he wasn't sure if he wanted the Slayer to stake him or save him. He wasn't sure of anything; _hardly_ sure of what his next words would be… but they were out before he could decide.

"Help me."


	23. Chapter 23

"Dammit girl, invite us in!" Spike snarled. "I'm parboiling out here!"

"No," Buffy replied in a voice that told him just how ridiculous she thought his request was.

"Fairly unlikely," her Watcher seconded, rounding the door with a crossbow aimed at his heart. "Drop the girl Spike."

"Stupid git!" he spat. "Why do you think 'm here!" He hitched Shadoe up against his chest, opening his palm to show them the blood pooling at her abdomen. "Girl got shot and she needs tendin' now!"

"Oh my God!" Buffy gasped. "What did you do to her! Wait…" she looked up at him in confusion. "Why are you here? Why did you bring her to us?"

Spike snarled, looking around frantically at the encroaching sunlight. They were wasting time. "You gonna help her or not Slayer? Cause she's well on her way to dying!"

Buffy hesitated, but Giles just shifted his grip on his bow. "This could be a trick Buffy," he murmured. "She could be a vampire, or some sort of demon. A trap."

"She's a Slayer you Ponce!" Spike barked. A look of shock came over their faces and he knew they didn't believe him. Inside he saw a flash of red hair move, and leaned around Buffy to better see the young witch. "Willow!" he called, "Tell 'em what I said!"

"You asked how Buffy died and said that you hoped it was really painful?" Willow said on a question, confused as to how that would help his case.

"Yes, bad, but let's skip that part," Spike said in frustration

"Oh! You said that you had the new slayer with you!"

"Yeah! Except now it looks like they're gonna finish the job they did on her if you don't let us in!"

"Wait, so… what are you saying?" Giles asked, moving further into the doorway, the bolt in his crossbow dropping just a bit. "That this girl is a Slayer?"

"Blood doesn't lie," Spike intoned. "It's weak, but it's there."

"Buffy," Giles said quietly.

"We'll help her," Buffy conceeded, looking Spike in the eye. "But you're not coming in."

Spike didn't answer, only shifted Shadoe in his arms and held her body out to the two people waiting to take her. It felt wrong, it felt dangerous to be letting go of her, his senses screaming not to let her out of his sight, but what choice did he have? He felt Buffy's arms sliding past his as she moved to take her from him, felt himself relieved of the burden but somehow that felt worse. As Buffy moved to step back into the apartment Shadoe seemed to sense his absence as well because she began to stir, her dark eyes flashing open and darting back and forth, her hand shooting out to grab onto his wrist.

"Spike," she whimpered, clinging tightly, "Spike…"

He could feel the bones in his wrist shifting under her grip. " 'S all right luv," he reassured, trying to pry her fingers away one by one. "Gonna get you all fixed up." He hissed and pressed himself closer to the barrier over the threshold as the shadows near the wall inched away, the sunlight burning his exposed skin.

"Sun," she whispered, her eyes rolling up in her head. "Get out of the sun."

"Let go and I will!" he snapped in desperation.

Wrenching from her grip, he jerked his duster up to protect his face. Giles and Buffy caught Shadoe's body, pulling her through the doorway and attempting to carry her inside, but she began to twist and writhe, calling out in a fever delirium.

"No!" she shouted, the fear in her voice burning cold through Spike's chest, like ice on dry skin. "No, Spike! Don't let them take me back! No! Can't go back! You promised! No! No!"

Spike snarled at the blonde Slayer manhandling his Feeder, trying to manage the larger girl as she thrashed and clawed. "What the hell Spike!" Buffy demanded, ducking a swing as Shadoe threw out an arm.

"Soddin' soldier boys," he hissed. "Did a number on the both of us. I've got all the information Slayer, the inside scoop." His voice went low and calculating. "They're doin' experiments down there," he said wickedly. "Vampires, demons, _humans_. Wonder what the Slayer could do with a little inside knowledge."

Giles sighed heavily, causing Buffy to shake her head vehemently, her eyes wide.

"Giles don't!" she said emphatically.

The Watcher raised his crossbow once more, aiming it at Spike's heart. "Come in Spike."

He was across the threshold and had Shadoe scooped up in his arms before any one of them could blink, let alone cry out in protest. He could feel the crosshairs on his back, sensed Buffy slipping a pain of stakes into her waistband, caught Willow unearthing a crucifix from beneath her shirt out of the corner of his eye, but none of it mattered. Shadow had calmed as soon as he had picked her up, and so had he. This was better. This was safe. But neither of them were out of danger yet.

Moving over to the long wooden table in the center of the room, he swept out an arm, sending placemats floating to the floor. Placing the girl down as gently as he could, he pushed her top up towards her chest, exposing the bloody wound marring the pale skin of her abdomen. Giles quickly handed off his crossbow to Buffy and stepped in close, pressing lightly on either side of the wound and making Shadoe cry out.

Spike snarled, baring his teeth at the Watcher, but immediately found himself staring down the shaft of Buffy's bow. He took two willing steps backward but wasn't going any farther, and she seemed to acknowledge that. Pulling out a chair near Shadoe's head, she pointed with one hand.

"Sit!" she demanded.

A growl rumbled up low and ominous from his chest but he sat, maintaining the menacing growl all the while as the Slayer procured a rope and tied him tightly to the chair. A token complaint leapt into his throat about her having cut off his circulation, but he swallowed it back. If she thought that looping his arms and legs to that of a simple wooden dining chair would keep him put, then by all means he would let her think it. Confident that he could free himself is he had to, weak or not, he was still aware that he had walked himself into an enclosed space with quite a few people who didn't care for him, and so he quietly began to take stock of the situation.

The Watcher, who had pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and scrubbed to his elbows was pulling a lamp over to the table, shining it down over Shadoe's stomach. Willow had been sent up the stairs to retrieve a first aid kit that any field medic would be proud of, and was now laying out bits and pieces at Giles' side. Buffy stood at his other side in front of Spike, her crossbow carefully aimed though she was sharing her confused glances between him and the girl on the improvised operating table. A quick look over his shoulder showed him that the whelp was lying on the couch under a blanket, pale and sweating and looking like death, a thing that lifted Spike's spirits a bit. A brunette that he didn't really recognize sat at the boy's side, staring back at him intently with curious eyes.

"What?" he snapped, making them all jump.

"You desire vengeance," she said simply.

"Yeah." He sure as hell did.

"I haven't felt something so strong in _years_."

Spike raised his eyebrows. Had the Slayer brought a vengeance demon into the fold?

"But you're a man." The demon continued.

Spike shifted suggestively in his chair. "Last time I checked," he smirked. "Haven't had any complaints."

She tilted her head, then nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'd grant a wish for you. You're not a woman, but…"

"Thanks but no thanks, demon girl," Spike replied, turning back around to face the table. "Not lookin' to hire. Hands-on type of bloke, me."

"Lucky," she muttered behind him.

Spike grinned despite himself. He could practically hear the pout in her voice.

"_No _vengeance wishing!" Buffy declared, glaring at the girl over his shoulder. "And you!" She poked him with the crossbow bolt. "I'm not gonna let you just take off and kill whoever you want!"

"We'll see about that Slayer," Spike snarled, half under his breath as he watched Giles cleaning the blood from Shadoe's skin as best he could. His tongue crept out to run over dry lips. "If she dies… Oi!"

Buffy had seen him licking his lips and slapped him on the side of the head. Sending him a glare, she stalked around to Giles' side to watch over his shoulder.

"What exactly happened?" the Watcher asked, picking up a pair of forceps and holding them uncertainly in his hand.

"Girl got shot," Spike answered, fury creeping into his voice. "Soldier boys were aimin' for me but she stepped in front of it, so I don't know what she got hit with. They use all sorts of shite down there."

"_Down_ there?" Buffy asked, her eyes straying to Spike's chest. His red shirt had been pulled askew when she'd tied him down, and where the neck stretched low she could see nasty red gashes still scarring him.

"Fix her up and I'll tell you anything you want to know Slayer," he said, his eyes still on the girl. "But you fix her first."

Buffy opened her mouth but paused when she realized Spike wasn't paying any attention to her at all. His entire being was focused on the girl on the table, his forehead crinkling with concern when her hands fisted at her sides and she let out a high-pitched whistling sort of cry, the pain so great that it reached all the way down through her unconsciousness. Willow was holding her shoulders gently as Giles dug into her abdomen with his forceps, fishing for the bullet lodged there, but the girl was still tossing, her face terribly pale.

"She should have some blood," Spike muttered under his breath.

"_She _should have some blood?" Buffy asked, confusion coloring her voice. He wasn't looking so hot himself, paler than she'd ever seen him, dark circles under his eyes, his clothes hanging off him like he'd lost twenty pounds fast.

"Transfusion," Spike continued, talking completely to himself as though Buffy had never spoken. "She's AB positive; universal receiver - anything should work. 'S long as those bastards didn't do anything else to her o' course."

"Got it!" Giles cried with a smile. Every eye in the room trained on him as he very slowly extracted what looked like a computer chip from the wound above Shadoe's hip, a small red light blinking out of the plastic.

"What _is _that?" Buffy asked, her crossbow dropping to her side.

Spike knew exactly what it was. "Oh bollocks!"


	24. Chapter 24

Spike wasn't the only one to recognize the tracker for what it was; Giles was a quick study too. A dash to the bathroom and a flush had the thing whisking away through the sewer system, hopefully soon enough that their location had yet to be triangulated. Spike spent the few minutes he was gone growling low in his throat and muttering under his breath, but still watching closely as Willow disinfected the entry wound and cover it with a thick piece of gauze, taping it down over Shadoe's stomach.

"Well, I think it's safe to say your friends are still looking for you," Giles said as he returned from the back hallway, looking with approval on Willow's work.

"No friends of mine, Watcher," Spike answered darkly. "But there's one or two as gonna be _real _acquainted with me before the end."

"Oh shut up Spike," Buffy groaned, putting her crossbow down on the table as Giles and Willow worked to move the unconscious Shadoe over to the couch, Xander having vacated it in favor of an armchair where he could keep a better eye on the resident vampire. "Today was _not _the day for me to have to deal with you." Spike narrowed his eyes and watched speculatively as the Slayer moved behind the kitchen bar and picked up a bowl and a whisk. "We're dealing with a tribe of really mad Indian spirits come back to haunt us at the moment."

"Well can you blame them?" Willow cried from across the room, where she had planted herself behind a mound of books. "After the way they were treated, I mean… we stole from them, we gave them all kinds of terrible diseases, we enslaved them and we…"

"Oh, _someone_ put a stake in me!" Spike muttered loudly.

Xander perked up and lifted a pale, limp hand. "You've got a lot of volunteers in here," he said with a shaky smile.

Spike turned a cold stare on the boy, who quailed under his steady gaze. "You smell like death," the vampire said simply.

Xander's eyes went wide.

"I'm just saying," Willow continued in an obstinate tone, "This isn't a Western! Couldn't we find a nice, non-judgmental way to…"

Spike scoffed, cutting her off once more. "You won!" he declared. "All right? You came in, and you killed them, and you took their land. That's what conquering nations _do_. That's what Caesar did! And he's not going around saying 'I came, I conquered, I felt really bad about it!'" He shook his head disgustedly and looked away for a moment, before turning on Willow again with glowing amber eyes. "The past is past," he stated. "They come after you _now_, then you go after them. You have better weapons…" Here he slipped on his fangs, baring them at the rattled redhead, "And you massacre them. End of story. Kill. Or be killed. Take your bloody pick."

Buffy, who's whisking had slowed during his little speech, whimpered from behind him.

"I just wanna have thanksgiving," she pouted.

Spike huffed out a derisive chuckle. "Yeah," he laughed. "Good luck with that."

With a wrench and a jerk, he managed to hop his chair around so it was facing the couch, giving him a partially unobstructed view of his girl. Still passed out, she tossed none the less, rocking a bit from side to side, her face twitching as though with nightmares. With the immediate danger passed, he could admit that the wound hadn't been so life threatening as it had seemed. Smaller than a bullet, the tracker had only done so much damage because it had plowed into the soft insides of her stomach – had it been almost anywhere else, it would have been nothing to pry it out and crush it under the heel of his boot. It was his panic that had made it serious; his brain screaming at him that _any _blood lost was too much.

Spike felt exhaustion drop over him like a blanket made of lead. Bloody long day. And now, being able to tilt his head and listen to Shadoe's calm, steady heartbeat, to the gentle, easy swish of her lungs… well that was good. Relaxing as all hell, actually. She'd be safe here with the white hats, and he would be too, at least until Buffy'd wrung all the information she could out of him. Slumping forward against his bonds until his chin hit his chest, he let the ropes carry his weight, only upright because they held him there. God, what had he gotten himself into?

"What's wrong?" Buffy asked.

Spike's head came up because, just for a moment, he'd thought she was talking to him.

"The victims," Giles answered. "Apart from Xander, Hus is targeting authority figures: Father Gabriel, the curator of the museum. Who else fits this pattern?"

"The dean!" Buffy cried. "Dean Guerrero. He's the… 'king' of us, and he was at the ceremony."

"Well I think we ought to warn him," Giles replied.

Spike thought briefly about correcting them, about pointing out that to an Indian Chief, and authority figure would be a warrior, not a scholar, but he held his tongue. He still wasn't sure how he was getting out of here, and a good distraction might do the trick.

"I'll go," Willow volunteered, clearly still peeved.

"Not alone!" Buffy ordered, pointing a finger.

The whelp and the demon girl both volunteered, clambering slowly off the furniture and towards the door. Spike took a few sniffs as they passed, wondering briefly if he could feed off of someone who'd already kicked it. The boy really didn't look well at all, but Spike caught a hint of something sour as he passed, infection boiling hot in his blood, and it turned the vampire's stomach.

"We'll keep on looking for a solution," Giles said as they gathered their coats.

"The dean's house is up past the gym," Buffy pointed out helpfully. "And guys; hurry? Dinner's in an hour!"

The hour passed terribly slowly for Spike. His head bobbed on his neck with fatigue, and he desperately wished he could nod off as Shadoe'd done, lying still and quiet on the couch. But the Slayer and her Watcher were clattering around none to quietly in the kitchen behind him, while at the same time carefully ignoring his presence, no doubt wanting to be out of earshot before they discussed his fate. Boredom was unbearable for Spike, and so he began a game with himself, planning out his revenge on the science-bitch and the soldier-boy in great detail, mumbling nasty things under his breath as he switched from one method of torture to another, unable to decide which would be the most fun.

"Do I have to gag you?" Buffy cried suddenly, slamming spoons down on the table. "Because I am not gonna listen to you _mutter _all through my dinner. It's gonna be a nice, quiet, _civilized_…"

A whistling sound cut off her rant as an arrow came sailing in through the window, impaling the stuffed Pilgrim who sat in the middle of the dining table. Spike came sharply alert as the Slayer once again began to prattle about how bad she felt about the Indian situation. Hopping his chair in a circle, his eyes went wide as windows began smashing out all over the flat, bows being strung and aimed.

"Get down!" Giles cried, dragging Buffy to the floor.

"Oi!" Spike cried, "What about us? You gonna leave us here like…"An arrow came whistling down from an upstairs window, barreling into his torso with a thud. "Hey!" he yelped, "Watch the heart!" It was far too close for comfort.

As the sounds of the battle picked up around him, he focused on trying to break his bonds. It was harder than he'd anticipated; the Slayer knew her knots. Finally managing to get one leg free, he booted the side of the couch hard.

"Shadoe!" he shouted. "Come on girl, rise 'n bloody shine!"

The girl came awake with a yip, reflexively curling into a protective ball before immediately jack knifing flat, screaming with the pain of her torn abdominal muscles. The motion sent her toppling off the couch and onto the floor, where Spike planted his foot down hard on her shoulder, holding her to the carpet.

"Stay down!" he hissed as another arrow drove into his shoulder.

For some reason the sound of a phone ringing broke above the whistling of arrows, and Spike looked over in shock as the Watcher chose to take the call, informing the person on the line that they were currently under siege and thanking them for their concern. He ignored Buffy's query as to who was calling, something Spike himself wondered, and began crawling towards the weapons chest.

"We need a plan," he said, ducking back behind the desk they'd taken shelter beneath as an arrow came sailing towards him.

"Yes," Spike purred saccharinely as another bolt drove into his chest. "Let's talk about it some more."

The girl beneath his boot was shaking, he could feel it trembling up through his leg, but there wasn't much he could about it for the time being. He was beginning to feel like a pin cushion, and with both the Watcher and the Slayer being apparently piss-poor shots with their own crossbows, he needed a plan and needed one fast, before some brassed off Chief did him in with a lucky strike. Fighting furiously at his bonds, he knew that his strength was far too sapped to free himself.

"Shadoe," he pleaded, praying to God that the girl could pull herself together long enough to work a knot. "Shadoe! Come on luv, need your help. Gotta get me outta these, come on!"

The panic in his voice must've sparked something in her, because she pulled herself to her knees, ducking and cringing, but working at the ropes at his back none the less. Spike muttered encouragements as best he could, keeping a careful eye on the fight. He could hear clanging in the courtyard, shouting and the sound of metal on skulls, and could only assume that the rest of the cavalry had returned and were similarly occupied. Just in time too, as suddenly the Indian Chief dropped inside with a shout, engaging Buffy in a far closer fight. A second brave leapt in and collided with the Watcher, a stone dagger flashing in his hand. Neither was faring well, the Slayer doing little damage and the Watcher only just managing to hold his own. They needed help.

"Bloody hell!" Spike barked as another arrow drove into his thigh.

Shadoe dropped her knots and spun around in front of him, fear and concern in her face as her hand went to the wooden shaft protruding from his leg.

"Giles these guys, they don't die!" Buffy cried from across the room.

Turning back from the Slayer, Spike's eyes went wide as a third Indian stole towards him, his knife raised over Shadoe's unassuming back. "Shadoe move!"

She did. Just never how he'd thought she would. Hand fisting around the bolt in his leg, she jerked it out in one smooth, incredibly painful motion, spinning on her heel and sweeping out one leg to knock the warrior to the floor. She immediately leapt upon him, pressing her slim advantage as they rolled about. Her moves were amateurish, her body obviously inexperienced in the fight, but Spike could see. Like her blood, it wasn't completely there, just an aftertaste, an after thought, a hint at something more beneath. There was Slayer there, buried deep and dormant, waiting, but it was there, and it was guiding her now.

Her hand came out to block a nasty blow, one that might've broken a normal girl's jaw had it connected, and while she saved her face, she missed the knee that the brave threw up, driving it into her tender stomach above her hip where she'd so recently been shot. Screaming in pain, she went down, followed by the Indian who straddled her and raised his knife high. Spike was sure that he was snarling, roaring in rage as he lashed out angrily, desperate to free himself and protect what was his, but he seemed to have gone deaf to the fight around him. He could only watch in what looked like slow motion; the Indian's knife flashing down towards Shadoe's chest in a killing blow. It never connected.

She had driven the arrow in her fist deep into the brave's stomach, shoving it upward beneath his rib cage. The spirit looked down at her in surprise and then simply dissolved, a green mist floating away into nothing. Shadoe collapsed back onto the floor, thoroughly spent from the fight, her hands going protectively to her belly, but Spike had had a revelation.

"Their weapons," he whispered, the lightbulb flashing on. "Their weapons can kill them!" he shouted across the room to Buffy. "Use their weapons!"

Buffy appeared to ignore him, intent on the fight, but he must've gotten through, because her next vicious, spinning kick was directed at her attacker's hand, not his head. His stone dagger went clattering to the floor and she dived on it, rolling up to slash out and catch him in the shoulder. A line of blood was raised, giving credence to Spike's suggestion, and Buffy smiled wickedly.

The chief smiled back. Taking a step back, he crossed his arms, and suddenly his image blurred, growing larger and darker as they watched. Spike felt fear puddle cold and heavy in his stomach once again, a full grown beast come together in the middle of the room before his very eyes.

"A bear!" he shouted in shock, "You made a bear!"

"I didn't mean to!" Buffy cried in dismay.

"Undo it!" Spike screamed. "Undo it!"

The bear stumbled forward, its massive arms coming out to wrap Buffy in a deathly hug. Jumping back, she slashed out with the knife, trying to duck beneath its heavy, razor-sharp claws. With a flick of its paw the animal sent her barreling over the back of the couch, where she landed in a heap next to Shadoe on the floor. Reflexively, the girl shoved her away, unintentionally propelling the Slayer back to her feet and over the sofa, vaulting the thing just as the whelp, who'd come crashing through the door some time earlier, pitched something at the bear's head. Distracted, the animal turned, giving Buffy the perfect arc to swing her knife over its shoulder and down into its chest. Sinking back into the shape of a man once more, the spirit and all its followers melted away, green luminescence winking out in the dark.


	25. Chapter 25

"What happened?" Shadoe croaked from her position on the floor. "Did we win?"

A smile crept over Spike's face and he laughed a little. "Yeah luv," he chortled. "We won. And a bloody good brawl, too!" A half dozen pairs of eyes looked at him questioningly, as though he were completely out of his mind. "What?" he asked, looking from face to face with raised brow. "None of you saw…?" He huffed out a sigh and turned away. "Course you didn't."

Buffy sighed too, looking around slowly at the mess surrounding her as Giles propped the door back into place over the threshold. A loud _ding_ broke the silence, and the bruised and bloodied Slayer came back to life, leaping for the kitchen.

"The turkey!" she cried.

Her friends chuckled a bit at her antics, but slowly began to pick up their shattered little world, putting plates and silverware back into place, straightening chairs and tossing aside broken bits of arrow. Shadoe crawled to her feet, one hand still at her side and looked about, clearly confused as to why she was surrounded by strangers.

" 'S all right luv," Spike murmured. No doubt she was frightened. She hadn't been around many other people lately, and the only ones she had were either hunting her of hurting her. "These are the good guys. They fixed you up, won't be hurting you, ok?"

"They tied you up," she said woodenly, as though she hadn't processed any of what he'd said, could only see the ropes holding him tightly to the chair. Her hand went out towards him, touched him lightly on the shoulder, and he automatically turned his face into her arm, nuzzling along her wrist, his relief that she had made it through the siege staggering.

"You're up!"

Shadoe jumped and the two broke apart, no doubt the intention of the red head who was eyeing Spike nervously, like a dog with its ears back and its teeth showing. Shadoe stepped back skittishly, looking to him for reassurance, but he didn't know what to say.

"I'm Willow," the young witch continued with a gentle smile. "What's your name?"

The others had fallen silent, watching carefully as Willow tried to draw the girl out. Giles in particular wasn't sure about this whole thing, didn't know how this girl could be a Slayer or why she was in the company of one of the most notorious vampires in history. If she was under duress, he should think now a good time for her to be out with it, her captor under tight wraps.

She looked to Spike once more, unsure, uncertain about anything but him, and when he nodded she fisted her hands at her sides, her eyes on the floor. "I'm a shadow," she whispered quietly, so softly that Willow almost didn't hear.

"Your name's Shadoe?" she asked. "That's a nice name." Spike's eyes narrowed. That hadn't been what she said, but he supposed it was close enough. "Are… are you feeling ok Shadoe?" Willow asked, shooting a quick, wary look his way.

Shadoe's hand moved gingerly to her side, where the white bandage peeked out beneath the edge of her torn top. "Hurts," she muttered, her eyes far away.

"Oh!" Willow said, "Well we can…"

She looked to Giles, who nodded an affirmative and moved to the medical kit, which had been placed on the floor near the wall after their impromptu operation. "Yes of course," he said, rummaging about and coming up with a bottle that rattled in his hand. "I have some pills that should…"

"No!" Shadoe shouted, making everyone but Spike jump. He'd seen it coming, but hadn't been able to stop it, eyes only for the girl who stumbled backward and fell to her knees at his side, arms up defensively as she trembled. "No, no, no , no…"

"Hey, 's all right," he said firmly to the girl, who had buried her face in his side. "Not drugs. Just medicine. Hey. Shadoe. Shadoe!" The girl's harsh, sobbing chant ceased, but her hand came up to fist in his shirt, making him hiss as she pushed against his own tender belly. "It's ok," he murmured through gritted teeth. "It's ok. Not gonna hurt you pet. I promised, remember? Not gonna hurt you."

Gasping for breath, but no longer sobbing, she raised dark, wet eyes to his. "Don't make me," she begged. "Please. Please don't make me."

"Your choice pet," he reassured, though privately he thought that a strong dose of pain killers, even some sleeping pills, would do her a world of good. "You decide. Don't have to take 'em if you don't want to. Ok? Or I can take a look, give 'em the go ahead. Make all the rumbling in your belly go away for a little while. That'd be nice yeah?"

The girl sniffed and nodded tentatively, her hand going to her stomach one more time.

"You wanna try that?" he asked. Not giving her the option, he raised an eyebrow at Willow, the least threatening figure in the room with her slight build and her fuzzy orange and yellow sweater. The girl went to Giles and took the bottle, shaking two of the pills out into her hand before moving to Spike's side, her palm flat and well away from the girl, wisely keeping him between them.

"Look good to me pet," he said gently. "Just regular old baby aspirin. Won't even knock you out."

She was watching the little pills in Willow's hand carefully, like they were snakes that could suddenly lash out and poison her, and Spike didn't blame her one bit. He knew what it felt like to be drugged, and he wouldn't be free of that little phobia for a while.

"Your choice pet," he said firmly. "You get to choose. Yes or no. Doesn't matter, but they _will_ make you feel better for a little while. They won't hurt you."

Painfully slowly, and with a shaking hand, she reached out once, twice, until she carefully picked the little tablets up, Willow dead still beneath her fingers. Rolling them in her palm, she looked at them dubiously before looking to Spike one more time, the question all over her frightened face.

"Promise luv," he said solemnly. "Not again."

Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she bit the bullet and swallowed them down in one gulp. The look on her face might've been comical if the situation weren't so sad; she looked like she was waiting to explode, like she thought the things would detonate as soon as they hit her stomach. When nothing immediately happened she seemed to calm a little, her shoulders relaxing as she slowly released his shirt from her fist. Activity awkwardly picked back up, as the others in the room began to move steaming dishes onto the table, unsure of how to react to what they'd just seen, unsure if they even understood what they'd just seen.

"See luv?" he asked gently. " 'S all right. The white hats might be insufferable, but they won't hurt you. Promise."

A shudder rippled down over her frame as she eyed the ropes cutting into him, the arrows that still remained imbedded deeply in his flesh. Her hands moved to untie his leg from the chair, but he shook his head.

"Leave it," he said, well aware that she was the only one in the room who would feel safe with him free to move about. As much as he would love to get loose and scarper, he felt ready to drop at any moment, hardly up to battling the Slayer for the right to show himself out. "You should eat pet," he said, ignoring the way she was looking at him. "Need something in your stomach."

"Are you hungry Shadoe?" Willow asked softly, the only one of the Scoobies who had held her position, watching them closely. "Buffy made dinner. We've got lots."

Shadoe narrowed her eyes. "Buffy?" The word was foreign on her tongue.

"Oh, right," Willow smiled. Pointing to each member of the gang in turn, she quickly named off introductions. "That's Buffy, Xander, Anya, and Giles."

"You're… Spike's friends?" Shadoe asked warily, clearly confused as to why someone he thought good, someone he knew, would have him tied down.

Willow's face fell. "Oh, well uh, not…"

"Good friends pet," Spike interrupted. The last thing he needed was for the girl to go into a panic attack, thinking he'd brought her into a den full of enemies… which he supposed he had. "Known each other a few years now. Had some… interesting times. Haven't we Red?" He glared at the girl in warning, a warning that she took well.

"Oh yup!" she squeaked. "Lots of interesting times!"

"You need to eat somethin' luv," Spike repeated before any of the Scoobies could but in.

"You too," she responded, getting to her feet and moving in towards him.

"Not now!" he hissed quickly, looking round to make sure Buffy hadn't heard, but the Slayer was busy handing off a carving knife to her Watcher. "Not now."

"You can sit right here Shadoe," Willow smiled, pulling out a chair near the end of the table at a place she had just quickly set.

Shadoe watched her with dark eyes, silent and fearful.

"Go," Spike urged. "You'll be all right."

She went. But so did he. Grabbing hold of the back of his chair, she tipped him back and struggled to pull it to the table until Buffy sighed exasperatedly and came to help, hauling him roughly across the floor. Spike rolled his eyes. Never had he thought he would be carted around like luggage by the Slayer, stuck full of needles like a damn throw pillow. Day just kept getting better. Pushing him in roughly, Buffy dropped into her seat at his side, Shadoe following much more timidly on his other. Spike's sense of irony prickled. Slayer blood on both sides and mashed potatoes being passed; dear God, what was the world coming to.

A gentle, idle chatter was taken up, the two of them sitting dead still as the dinner became more and more animated. Buffy seemed to notice Shadoe's struggle not to flee, to stay quiet and go unnoticed and took pity on her, casually reaching across Spike and filling her plate as she filled her own; turkey, stuffing, peas, gravy. And damn if it didn't smell good. Spike felt his stomach gurgle, but knew the Thanksgiving fare wasn't what he needed right now. He hadn't been graced with a plate anyways.

Buffy must've heard because she looked at him with raised brow as she tucked into her own plate. Spike sneered back at her, but from the corner of his eye he saw a shaky spoon poke around tentatively, and so he couldn't maintain the scowl. Turning back to face the Slayer, who was watching him closely, he silently mouthed the two words he'd never be able to say out loud.

Thank you.

Buffy frowned in response, confusion marring her forehead before she went back to her cranberries, thoroughly ignoring him.

Spike sighed wearily to himself. He'd go mad if he had to stay here too long. He was sure of it.

* * *

An age of chatter and clinking silverware later, the table had been cleared out and pie served, something that Shadoe poked at with a fork and then pushed away, not in the slightest bit interested. Spike had smiled a little at her look of disgust; if she was finding things that she liked and didn't like, she could start creating a personality for herself, start creating a life. She would be a real girl one day.

"I feel lousy," Willow announced suddenly to the table. The Watcher's eyes went wide and he quickly moved to defend the dinner on behalf of his Slayer, the witch quickly correcting her faux pas. "It's just," she explained in a whiny sort of tone, "Look at me! Two seconds of conflict with an indigenous person and I turn into General Custer!"

"Well, violence does that," the Watcher condoled around a mouthful of pie. "Instinct takes over."

"Yeah," Spike chuckled, entering the conversational ring for the first time with a wild, roundhouse swing. "That's the fun!" He ignored the glares shot his way and instead smiled down at Shadoe, who was slouching low in her seat, sleepiness taking hold. "Like a dark dance. Good on you, girl!"

Shadoe looked back at him strangely, clearly confused. "What?" he demanded, "You don't remember either? Of for the love of…"

"Well, good work Buffy, on both counts!" Giles praised, watching Spike with narrowed eyes. Seemed to be a lot of that going around.

"We all worked together," Willow smiled, trying to rope in a semblance of the Thanksgiving spirit, despite her stand on the holiday.

"Yeah, especially with Angel bein' here and everything," Xander said casually, stuffing the last bite of his pie into his mouth.

A dead silence dropped over the table as all eyes turned to Buffy, recognizing the mistake as it was made. Shock and anger dropped down over the Slayer's face, but it was Spike who broke the silence with a bitter laugh.

"Soddin' Angel!" he snarled.


	26. Chapter 26

"Of _course_ he was here!" Spike said loudly, shaking his head. "Somethin' goes wrong and it's always bloody Angelus behind it. God _dammit_!" He turned on Buffy with eyes flashing. "This is _his_ fault!" he hissed.

"No, Buffy, it's…" Willow stammered, "He's not evil! I mean, we thought he was, but, he was just here to…"

"Oh belt up!" Spike snapped, and the girl did despite the unfamiliar British slang. "_Angel_ this and _Angelus_ that - doesn't make any bloody difference! Had his soddin' soul by then didn't he? Didn't stop him from bollixing up the whole mess."

"Spike what the hell are you talking about?" Buffy demanded in a deadly whisper, her knife gripped tight in her hand. Shadoe was watching fearfully but Spike was off and gone, pissed beyond reckoning as the whispers of accusation and suspicion floating around in his brain finally came together.

"Him and his bloody patriotic duty," he snarled, flashing back to a long ago run- in with his grand sire twenty thousand leagues deep. "Told him didn't I? Burn it all, I said. Should a sunk that bloody German sardine tin myself when I had the chance!"

"Arrrgh!" Buffy growled, jumping to her feet and carrying dishes to the kitchen. "Spike I have no idea what you're talking about please, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, _shut up_! Before I stake you to make myself feel better."

No one seemed to notice the little snarl that came from the back of Shadoe's throat, or the way that her arm came out across Spike's chest in a protective motion as she sat up and angled herself in front of him. They were all too preoccupied with Buffy. The slamming of cutlery into the sink did not bode well for the way she was taking the news.

"Oops," Xander muttered.

Spike rolled his eyes but was quickly distracted from the Slayer's woes in favor of his own, inhaling sharply when the shrug of his shoulders knocked the arrows in his chest against the rungs of his chair. Shadoe looked at him with concern, turning his chair from the table and touching one of the feathered shafts gently with her fingers. Better her than any of the others, he supposed.

"Don't hesitate," he warned, bracing himself as his hands fisted tight at his sides. "Get a good grip, nice and smooth. One good, hard… bloody hell!"

She'd taken him by surprise with that first one, and it was good. The other two wouldn't be as bad. Well done then; it had been a smart move. His cry seemed to attract some attention; Willow looking on with something like pained sympathy, Giles even taking a step forward as if to help, but it was over fast, the last two bolts ripped from his flesh and leaving him hunched and panting with discomfort.

"Shit," he gasped, wishing his arms were free so that he could wrap them around his torso, wishing he were anywhere but here so that he could whimper without a fucking audience. He thought he'd earned that much. Shadoe's hand touched his face lightly, awkwardly and unnecessarily brushing back the hair near his ear.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she sobbed anxiously, flittering around him nervously in a way that was particularly annoying to the exhausted and aching vampire.

"It's fine," he hissed between his teeth. "Leave off girl, it's fine!"

"Not really," a voice piped up, the demon girl voicing her opinion in the bold and honest manner that many of them had. "You _were_ injured; you should have blood. You look awful!"

"Well thanks pet," he huffed nastily, rolling his eyes in her direction. "You know, without the mirrors…"

"How long has it been since you've eaten?" she asked forwardly, tilting her head at him. "You look like you've been starving. Can't you feed anymore?"

"I've always wondered what happens to vampires who can't feed," the Watcher added speculatively, removing his glasses for a polish.

"Living skeletons mate," Spike answered, carefully skirting the question of his own health, and exactly what and who he could now feed from. No need to give them any ideas. "Like famine pictures from those dusty countries. Only not half as funny."

Shadoe made a choking sound in the back of her throat and went violently pale. Willow too made a strange sound, something almost like sympathy, something he never would have expected to receive from the red-head he'd threatened with a broken bottle once. "Spike that's…"

"Just so, so sad," Xander added sarcastically, climbing slowly to his feet. That was more like it. "Just terrible."

Spike and Shadoe both scowled as he slipped on his coat, along with the wicca and the demon girl. The three began shuffling towards the door, collecting bags and Tupperware dishes that were pressed into their hands by a tight lipped Slayer. She managed to send them each off with the semblance of a smile, thanking them for coming and promising to see them soon. Propping the broken door shut behind them, she turned with a huff on Spike.

"Now what are we supposed to do with you?"

"S'pose a jaunty wave as we disappeared into the night, never to be seen again would be too much to ask," he groaned, letting his head fall back on his neck. He listened quietly as Buffy huffed again, more attuned to the sound of Shadoe sinking sleepily to the floor. Then she was pressed along the length of his leg, her body heat seeping through his jeans as she curled up close at his feet, one hand on top of his combat boot. "Can't sleep there girl," he murmured, his eyes closed.

Shadoe didn't respond, so he shifted his knee, rocking her off him so that she was sitting up again, her eyes bleary. So maybe the pills _were_ working on her, that or a belly full of turkey and the exhaustion of a serious injury. He could feel Buffy and Giles staring at the girl with something akin to horror, no doubt confused as to why anyone, let alone a human someone, would be leaning on _him_ for support. Stupid gits. Loyalty to his girl had always been his biggest fault – they should know that by now.

Spike scoffed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Food aggression, that's all it was. He was just so damned tired…

"Giles, she can sleep here?" Buffy asked. "For tonight? Maybe tomorrow I can…"

"Yes, of course," the Watcher replied quickly. "I can make up the couch."

Spike heard his steps retreat up the stairs, felt Buffy shift around the edge of the room so that she stood off to his side, watching him closely. He had a bad feeling, unsure of _what_ was about to happen, sure that it couldn't be good. But Shadoe's head was bobbing on her neck as she struggled to keep her eyes open, so he nudged her gently with his knee once more and nodded towards the couch.

"Get some kip luv," he said gruffly. "You've had a long day; might as well sleep it off."

Without challenge, she crawled the few feet to the sofa and climbed up, lying on her side to face him though he could tell that it made her wound twinge. His leather duster had been thrown over the arm of the couch when Buffy'd tied him to the chair, and now she pulled the coat down and curled up beneath it, snuggling her face into the collar and inhaling deeply, a motion that once again did very strange things to him. Her eyelids fluttered as sleep quickly began to pull her down, but just before they closed they found his.

"Stay," she whispered. And then she was lost.

Spike swallowed hard. He thought to whisper back, a reassurance on deaf ears, but then the Watcher was at his side, a pillow and blanket in his hand. He looked from the sleeping girl to the vampire in surprise but Spike ignored him, consumed by the sight of the girl buried beneath his jacket. The man placed the quilt gently onto the floor near Shadoe's head and retreated once more, moving to stand at Buffy's side. Spike caught only snippets of the conversation.

"… can't stay here…"

"… unwise to separate them…"

"… with _him_…"

"… said he'll tell us…"

"… leaving him, not if he can hurt you…"

"Not gonna hurt your Watcher Slayer," Spike snarled. They fell silent, and he almost smirked. Vampire hearing children, no secret safe.

"And exactly _why_ should I believe that Spike?" Buffy snapped, crossing her arms and glaring at him. "You've tried to kill my friends before."

Spike snorted. "What?" he asked, "Last year with the witch and the whelp? Please!" He shook his head. "I was drunk… heartsick." His eyes flashed up and bored into Buffy's. "If I'd wanted 'em dead, they'd be dead!"

Buffy didn't respond, still eyeing him warily.

"You did me a good turn," Spike said begrudgingly. "I won't welsh on it."

"I can't just let you go," she replied, frowning in his direction.

He shrugged. He'd get away soon enough; she wouldn't have to. Striding over to him, she circled around behind, causing the hair on his neck to stand up, all his senses on alert. She tugged roughly on his ropes, spinning around and grimacing at the ankle he'd managed to wrench free before the fight. Spike felt his muscles tighten, anxious as to the Slayer's next move. She didn't have a stake on her at the moment, but that wouldn't stop her from beating the stuffing out of him when he couldn't fight back. Something must've flashed in his eyes, because Buffy's mouth softened.

"I'm not gonna hit you Spike," she said softly, avoiding his gaze.

_Why the bloody hell not_?!

Spike bit down hard on his tongue. He didn't want her pity, but Jesus, he didn't want her fists either! He needed to get a soddin' grip!

"Giles, do you have anything stronger than this?"

Buffy was tugging on his ropes again. He didn't hear the Watcher's response, because suddenly the crossbow was at Buffy's side again, being laid carefully on the floor out of his reach. He felt the ropes around his chest slackening and then she stepped back, picking up her bow and pointing it loosely in the direction of his chest. For a moment he didn't move, confused as to what she wanted, but she only waited and so he slowly unraveled himself from his bonds, leaning over to free his ankle and climbing gingerly to his feet.

He hadn't realized how much pain he'd been in while restrained, not until he moved, his spine creaking as the discs in his lower back decompressed. He dropped his shoulders and felt his collarbones shift, swiveled lightly at the hips and coughed with the effort of biting back a scream when his torso stretched. Ribs cracked, badly bruised, slashed by scalpels and now pierced through by stone arrowheads, and something deep in his belly still torn and tender. He was a mess.

The Slayer waited quietly while he did this, watching carefully with her bow held ready, though it wasn't aimed directly at his heart. His brain chastised her for a moment, but then conceded that if he looked only half as bad as he felt, he probably didn't look much of a threat at all. He turned to her with eyebrow raised, a silent question, and she indicated with her chin that he should move down the hallway to the bathroom at the back of the flat. He nodded solemnly, but moved first to Shadoe's side, drawing his coat up snug around her shoulders.

"Spike!" Buffy said, nervousness evident in her voice.

She didn't want him near her. And he shouldn't be. What was he doing? Straightening quickly, he moved down the hallway ahead of the Slayer, his weary mind in a whirl. He shouldn't be showing Shadoe any attention, not in front of Buffy, not at all. He could only imagine what would happen if the truth of their… _relationship_… was discovered. Inside the small bathroom, Spike looked around bewilderedly; did she want him to brush his teeth?

"Get in," she said, indicating the tub with her cross bow.

Spike bristled but did as she asked, too tired to make a crack about stripping off first. Sitting his ass down in the chilly porcelain bowl, he supposed he should count himself lucky that the Watcher was the type to have an old claw-foot as opposed to the cramped, plastic tubs that were the current style. Draping his elbows easily over the sides, he crossed his ankles and propped the heels of his boots up onto the edge, a position of flagrant cockiness that he didn't feel at all. Buffy rolled her eyes at him but didn't comment, turning away towards the door when a gentle clink sounded behind her.

Spike's eyes narrowed, immediately stuck on the thick black chains the Watcher carried. Two cautious gazes flashed on him; he'd started a deep, rumbling growl without even realizing it, his chest thrumming with the sound. Buffy passed off her crossbow, taking the chains and approaching slowly, her knuckles white on the irons. Reluctantly, unwillingly, he separated his feet to accommodate the shackles she snapped around his ankles, wide and heavy cuffs that gripped him like clawed hands as he pushed his feet hard against the wall of the tub, anything to keep from running, and all the while he snarled low in his throat, a deadly warning that he was at the edge of his limits and would tolerate little more.

Buffy looked almost apologetic as she fastened matching shackles over his wrists. Spike sneered, his hands fisted tight against stupidity. He didn't like this, didn't like being unable to defend himself, didn't like being out of sight of the girl…

"This isn't right," Buffy muttered, snaking the chain around the pipes and the foot of the bathtub.

He didn't know if she said it for him or her.


End file.
